LIBRARY 

•f  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SANTA    CRUZ 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 


TRAVELLING 
COM  PANIONS 


BY 

HENRY  JAMES 


BONI      AND      LIVERIGHT 

NEWYORK  1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  BONI  &  LlVERIGHT,  INC. 


Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS i 

THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX 53 

PROFESSOR  FARGO 87 

AT  ISELLA 125 

GUEST'S  CONFESSION      . .  157 

ADINA 223 

DE  GREY:   A  ROMANCE 269 


FOREWORD 

To  those  who  associate  the  name  of  Henry  James  with 
all  that  is  tedious  and  involved  in  the  art  of  fiction,  the 
tales  in  this  volume,  now  collected  for  the  first  time,  will 
appear  as  revelations  of  simplicity  in  style.  Here  we  have 
the  author  in  all  his  freshness;  his  principal  literary  char- 
acteristics are  ease  and  precision.  For  he  had  not  yet 
forged  rules  for  abstruseness  of  style,  to  perplex  and  weary 
his  reader.  In  these  stories  James  showed  even  no  remotest 
sign  of  ever  becoming  a  by-word  for  convolutions  of  English 
and  a  mark  for  the  parodist. 

Though  the  author  collected  in  his  Passionate  PUgrim 
(1875)  a  half  a  dozen  of  the  tales  he  published  in  the  maga- 
zines before  his  thirty-second  year,  he  overlooked  stories 
which  were  at  least  equal  to,  and  in  some  cases  superior 
to  those  he  then  brought  together.  The  seven  stories  in  this 
volume  were  written  and  published  exactly  at  the  time  of 
the  tales  in  his  Passionate  PUgrim  (between  1868  and 
1874).  The  issuing  of  this  volume,  therefore,  is  like  giving 
the  public  a  new  book  by  Henry  James  of  the  early  period. 
The  intellectual  and  the  average  man  both  may  read  and 
enjoy  it. 

It  is  the  tendency  of  some  critics  to  deprecate  what  an 
author  has  not  collected  himself.  We  know  that  writers 
often  have  been  the  poorest  judges  of  their  own  work.  We 
are  all  familiar  with  the  story  of  Byron  who  preferred  his 

vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

Hints  from  Horace  to  Childe  Harold.  James  was  a  par- 
ticularly erring  critic  when  it  came  to  his  own  writings. 
This  fact  is  attested  to  by  his  rewriting  and  ruining  some 
of  his  best  early  stories.  The  tales  in  this  volume  are  not 
apprentice  work.  They  show  the  hand  of  the  master.  True, 
there  is  the  influence  of  Hawthorne  and  George  Eliot  in  a 
strong  degree  and  a  romanticism  is  occasionally  indulged 
in  from  which  the  later  James  would  have  recoiled,  but  the 
fiction  is  solid  and  above  all,  entertaining.  The  author 
cherished  a  kindly  feeling  for  these  tales  all  his  life,  and  in 
the  last  of  his  autobiographical  works  published — Middle 
Years — he  tells  with  gusto  how  Tennyson  highly  praised 
before  him  one  of  these  tales  written  just  before  James  went 
to  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1869. 

James  has  also  left  us  a  record  of  the  affection  he  enter- 
tained for  them  and  also  suggests  that  their  origin  had  as 
a  basis  actual  experiences.  He  writes  in  Notes  of  a  Son 
and  Brother,  page  436,  in  speaking  of  his  early  tales,  pub- 
lished during  the  period  represented  by  the  ones  in  this 
volume: 

"I  of  course  really  and  truly  cared  for  them,  as  we  say, 
more  than  for  aught  else  whatever — cared  for  them  with 
that  kind  of  care,  infatuated  though  it  may  seem,  that 
makes  it  bliss  for  the  fond  votary  never  to  so  much  as  speak 
of  the  loved  object,  makes  it  a  refinement  of  piety  to  per- 
form his  rites  under  cover  of  a  perfect  freedom  of  mind  as 
to  everything  but  them.  These  secrets  of  imaginative  life 
were  in  fact  more  various  than  I  may  dream  of  trying  to 
tell;  they  referred  to  actual  concretions  of  existence  as  well 
as  to  the  supposition." 

This  collection  is  a  resurrecting  of  literary  material 
whose  loss  has  been  and  would  have  continued  to  be  unfor- 
tunate for  American  literature. 


FOREWORD  ix 

The  original  publications  of  the  stories  were  as  follows: 
Traveling  Companions,  Guest's  Confession  and  De  Gray 
appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  November-December, 
1870,  October-November,  1872,  and  July,  1868,  respec- 
tively; The  Sweetheart  of  M.  Briseux,  Professor  Fargo  and 
At  Isella  in  the  Galaxy  for  June,  1873,  August,  1874,  and 
August,  1871,  respectively;  and  Adina  in  Scribner's  Monthly 
May- June,  1874. 

ALBERT  MORDELL. 
Philadelphia, 
Feb.  6,  1919. 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 


THE  most  strictly  impressive  picture  in  Italy  is  incon- 
testably  the  Last  Supper  of  Leonardo  at  Milan.  A 
part  of  its  immense  solemnity  is  doubtless  due  to  its  being 
one  of  the  first  of  the  great  Italian  masterworks  that  you 
encounter  in  coming  down  from  the  North.  Another  sec- 
ondary source  of  interest  resides  in  the  very  completeness 
of  its  decay.  The  mind  finds  a  rare  delight  in  filling  each 
of  its  vacant  spaces,  effacing  its  rank  defilement,  and  re- 
pairing, as  far  as  possible,  its  sad  disorder.  Of  the  essential 
power  and  beauty  of  the  work  there  can  be  no  better  evi- 
dence than  this  fact  that,  having  lost  so  much,  it  has  yet 
retained  so  much.  An  unquenchable  elegance  lingers  in 
those  vague  outlines  and  incurable  scars;  enough  remains 
to  place  you  in  sympathy  with  the  unfathomable  wisdom 
of  the  painter.  The  fresco  covers  a  wall,  the  reader  will 
remember,  at  the  end  of  the  former  refectory  of  a  mon- 
astery now  suppressed,  the  precinct  of  which  is  occupied 
by  a  regiment  of  cavalry.  Horses  stamp,  soldiers  rattle 
their  oaths,  in  the  cloisters  which  once  echoed  to  the  sober 
tread  of  monastic  sandals  and  the  pious  greetings  of  meek- 
voiced  friars. 

It  was  the  middle  of  August,  and  summer  sat  brooding 
fiercely  over  the  streets  of  Milan.  The  great  brick-wrought 
dome  of  the  church  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Graces  rose  black 
with  the  heat  against  the  brazen  sky.  As  my  fiacre  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  church,  I  found  another  vehicle  in  pos- 
session of  the  little  square  of  shade  which  carpeted  the  glar- 
ing pavement  before  the  adjoining  convent.  I  left  the  two 
drivers  to  share  this  advantage  as  they  could,  and  made 


2  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

haste  to  enter  the  cooler  presence  of  the  Cenacolo.  Here  I 
found  the  occupants  of  the  fiacre  without,  a  young  lady 
and  an  elderly  man.  Here  also,  besides  the  official  who 
takes  your  tributary  franc,  sat  a  long-haired  copyist,  wooing 
back  the  silent  secrets  of  the  great  fresco  into  the  cheer- 
fulest  commonplaces  of  yellow  and  blue.  The  gentleman 
was  earnestly  watching  this  ingenious  operation;  the  young 
lady  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  picture,  from  which  she 
failed  to  move  them  when  I  took  my  place  on  a  line  with 
her.  I,  too,  however,  speedily  became  as  unconscious  of 
her  presence  as  she  of  mine,  and  lost  myself  in  the  study 
of  the  work  before  us.  A  single  glance  had  assured  me 
that  she  was  an  American. 

Since  that  day,  I  have  seen  all  the  great  art  treasures  of 
Italy:  I  have  seen  Tintoretto  at  Venice,  Michael  Angelo 
at  Florence  and  Rome,  Correggio  at  Parma;  but  I  have 
looked  at  no  other  picture  with  an  emotion  equal  to  that 
which  rose  within  me  as  this  great  creation  of  Leonardo 
slowly  began  to  dawn  upon  my  intelligence  from  the  trag- 
ical twilight  of  its  ruin.  A  work  so  nobly  conceived  can 
never  utterly  die,  so  long  as  the  half-dozen  main  lines  of 
its  design  remain.  Neglect  and  malice  are  less  cunning  than 
the  genius  of  the  great  painter.  It  has  stored  away  with 
masterly  skill  such  a  wealth  of  beauty  as  only  perfect  love 
and  sympathy  can  fully  detect.  So,  under  my  eyes,  the 
restless  ghost  of  the  dead  fresco  returned  to  its  mortal 
abode.  From  the  beautiful  central  image  of  Christ  I  per- 
ceived its  radiation  right  and  left  along  the  sadly  broken 
line  of  the  disciples.  One  by  one,  out  of  the  depths  of  their 
grim  dismemberment,  the  figures  trembled  into  meaning  and 
life,  and  the  vast,  serious  beauty  of  the  work  stood  re- 
vealed. What  is  the  ruling  force  of  this  magnificent  de- 
sign? Is  it  art?  is  it  science?  is  it  sentiment?  is  it  knowl- 
edge? I  am  sure  I  can't  say;  but  in  moments  of  doubt  and 
depression  I  find  it  of  excellent  use  to  recall  the  great  pic- 
ture with  all  possible  distinctness.  Of  all  the  works  of 
man's  hands  it  is  the  least  superficial. 

The  young  lady's  companion  finished  his  survey  of  the 
copyist's  work  and  came  and  stood  behind  his  chair.  The 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  3 

reader  will  remember  that  a  door  has  been  rudely  cut  in 
the  wall,  a  part  of  it  entering  the  fresco. 

"He  hasn't  got  in  that  door,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
speaking  apparently  of  the  copyist. 

The  young  lady  was  silent.  "Well,  my  dear,"  he  con- 
tinued. "What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

The  young  girl  gave  a  sigh.    "I  see  it,"  she  said. 

"You  see  it,  eh?  Well,  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  more 
to  be  done." 

The  young  lady  rose  slowly,  drawing  on  her  glove.  As 
her  eyes  were  still  on  the  fresco,  I  was  able  to  observe  her. 
Beyond  doubt  she  was  American.  Her  age  I  fancied  to  be 
twenty-two.  She  was  of  middle  stature,  with  a  charming, 
slender  figure.  Her  hair  was  brown,  her  complexion  fresh 
and  clear.  She  wore  a  white  pique  dress  and  a  black  lace 
shawl,  and  on  her  thick  dark  braids  a  hat  with  a  purple 
feather.  She  was  largely  characterized  by  that  physical 
delicacy  and  that  personal  elegance  (each  of  them  some- 
times excessive)  which  seldom  fail  to  betray  my  young 
countrywomen  in  Europe.  The  gentleman,  who  was  ob- 
viously her  father,  bore  the  national  stamp  as  plainly  as 
she.  A  shrewd,  firm,  generous  face,  which  told  of  many 
dealings  with  many  men,  of  stocks  and  shares  and  current 
prices, — a  face,  moreover,  in  which  there  lingered  the  mel- 
low afterglow  of  a  sense  of  excellent  claret.  He  was  bald 
and  grizzled,  this  perfect  American,  and  he  wore  a  short- 
bristled  white  mustache  between  the  two  hard  wrinkles 
forming  the  sides  of  a  triangle  of  which  his  mouth  was  the 
base  and  the  ridge  of  his  nose,  where  his  eye-glass  sat,  the 
apex.  In  deference  perhaps  to  this  exotic  growth,  he  was 
better  dressed  than  is  common  with  the  typical  American 
citizen,  in  a  blue  necktie,  a  white  waistcoat,  and  a  pair 
of  gray  trousers.  As  his  daughter  still  lingered,  he  looked 
at  me  with  an  eye  of  sagacious  conjecture. 

"Ah,  that  beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful  Christ,"  said  the 
young  lady,  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  her  words  in  spite  of 
its  softness.  "Oh  father,  what  a  picture!" 

"Hum!"  said  her  father,  "I  don't  see  it." 

"I  must  get  a  photograph,"  the  young  girl  rejoined.    She 


4  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

turned  away  and  walked  to  the  farther  end  of  the  hall, 
where  the  custodian  presides  at  a  table  of  photographs  and 
prints.  Meanwhile  her  father  had  perceived  my  Murray. 

"English,  sir?"  he  demanded. 

"No,  I'm  an  American,  like  yourself,  I  fancy." 

"Glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir.  From  New  York?" 

"From  New  York.  I  have  been  absent  from  home,  how- 
ever, for  a  number  of  years." 

"Residing  in  this  part  of  the  world?" 

"No.  I  have  been  living  in  Germany.  I  have  only  just 
come  into  Italy." 

"Ah,  so  have  we.  The  young  lady  is  my  daughter.  She 
is  crazy  about  Italy.  We  were  very  nicely  fixed  at  Inter- 
laken,  when  suddenly  she  read  in  some  confounded  book  or 
other  that  Italy  should  be  seen  in  summer.  So  she  dragged 
me  over  the  mountains  into  this  fiery  furnace.  I'm  actually 
melting  away.  I  have  lost  five  pounds  in  three  days." 

I  replied  that  the  heat  was  indeed  intense,  but  that  I 
agreed  with  his  daughter  that  Italy  should  be  seen  in  sum- 
mer. What  could  be  pleasanter  than  the  temperature  of 
that  vast  cool  hall? 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  my  friend;  "I  suppose  we  shall  have 
plenty  of  this  kind  of  thing.  It  makes  no  odds  to  me,  so 
long  as  my  poor  girl  has  a  good  time." 

"She  seems,"  I  remarked,  "to  be  having  a  pretty  good 
time  with  the  photographs."  In  fact,  she  was  comparing 
photographs  with  a  great  deal  of  apparent  energy,  while 
the  salesman  lauded  his  wares  in  the  Italian  manner.  We 
strolled  over  to  the  table.  The  young  girl  was  seemingly 
in  treaty  for  a  large  photograph  of  the  head  of  Christ,  in 
which  the  blurred  and  fragmentary  character  of  the  original 
was  largely  intensified,  though  much  of  its  exquisite  pathetic 
beauty  was  also  preserved.  "They'll  not  think  much  of  that 
at  home,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"So  much  the  worse  for  them,"  said  his  daughter,  with 
an  accent  of  delicate  pity.  With  the  photograph  in  her 
hand,  she  walked  back  to  the  fresco.  Her  father  engaged 
in  an  English  dialogue  with  the  custodian.  In  the  course 
of  five  minutes,  wishing  likewise  to  compare  the  copy  and 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  5 

the  original,  I  returned  to  the  great  picture.  As  I  drew 
near  it  the  young  lady  turned  away.  Her  eyes  then  for 
the  first  time  met  my  own.  They  were  deep  and  dark  and 
luminous, — I  fancied  streaming  with  tears.  I  watched  her 
as  she  returned  to  the  table.  Her  walk  seemed  to  me  pe- 
culiarly graceful;  light,  and  rapid,  and  yet  full  of  decision 
and  dignity.  A  thrill  of  delight  passed  through  my  heart 
as  I  guessed  at  her  moistened  lids. 

"Sweet  fellow-countrywoman,"  I  cried  in  silence,  "you 
have  the  divine  gift  of  feeling."  And  I  returned  to  the 
fresco  with  a  deepened  sense  of  its  virtue.  When  I  turned 
around,  my  companions  had  left  the  room. 

In  spite  of  the  great  heat,  I  was  prepared  thoroughly  to 
"do"  Milan.  In  fact,  I  rather  enjoyed  the  heat;  it  seemed 
to  my  Northern  senses  to  deepen  the  Italian,  the  Southern, 
the  local  character  of  things.  On  that  blazing  afternoon,  I 
have  not  forgotten,  I  went  to  the  church  of  St.  Ambrose,  to 
the  Ambrosian  Library,  to  a  dozen  minor  churches.  Every 
step  distilled  a  richer  drop  into  the  wholesome  cup  of  pleas- 
ure. From  my  earliest  manhood,  beneath  a  German  sky,  I 
had  dreamed  of  this  Italian  pilgrimage,  and,  after  much 
waiting  and  working  and  planning,  I  had  at  last  under- 
taken it  in  a  spirit  of  fervent  devotion.  There  had  been 
moments  in  Germany  when  I  fancied  myself  a  clever  man; 
but  it  now  seemed  to  me  that  for  the  first  time  I  really 
felt  my  intellect.  Imagination,  panting  and  exhausted,  with- 
drew from  the  game;  and  Observation  stepped  into  her 
place,  trembling  and  glowing  with  open-eyed  desire. 

I  had  already  been  twice  to  the  Cathedral,  and  had  wan- 
dered through  the  clustering  inner  darkness  of  the  high 
arcades  which  support  those  light-defying  pinnacles  and 
spires.  Towards  the  close  of  the  afternoon  I  found  myself 
strolling  once  more  over  the  great  column-planted,  altar- 
studded  pavement,  with  the  view  of  ascending  to  the  roof. 
On  presenting  myself  at  the  little  door  in  the  right  transept, 
through  which  you  gain  admission  to  the  upper  regions,  I 
perceived  my  late  fellow-visitors  of  the  fresco  preparing  ap- 
parently for  an  upward  movement,  but  not  without  some 
reluctance  on  the  paternal  side.  The  poor  gentleman  had 


6  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

been  accommodated  with  a  chair,  on  which  he  sat  fanning 
himself  with  his  hat  and  looking  painfully  apoplectic.  The 
sacristan  meanwhile  held  open  the  door  with  an  air  of  invi- 
tation. But  my  corpulent  friend,  with  his  thumb  m  his 
Murray,  balked  at  the  ascent.  Recognizing  me,  his  face 
expressed  a  sudden  sense  of  vague  relief. 

"Have  you  been  up,  sir?"  he  inquired,  groaningly. 

I  answered  that  I  was  about  to  ascend;  and  recalling 
then  the  fact,  which  I  possessed  rather  as  information  than 
experience,  that  young  American  ladies  may  not  improperly 
detach  themselves  on  occasion  from  the  parental  side,  I 
ventured  to  declare  that,  if  my  friend  was  unwilling  to  en- 
counter the  fatigue  of  mounting  to  the  roof  in  person,  I 
should  be  most  happy,  as  a  fellow-countryman,  qualified 
already  perhaps  to  claim  a  traveler's  acquaintance,  to  ac- 
company and  assist  his  daughter. 

"You're  very  good,  sir,"  said  the  poor  man;  "I  confess 
that  I'm  about  played  out.  I'd  far  rather  sit  here  and  watch 
these  pretty  Italian  ladies  saying  their  prayers.  Charlotte, 
what  do  you  say?" 

"Of  course  if  you're. tired  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you 
make  the  effort,"  said  Charlotte.  "But  I  believe  the  great 
thing  is  to  see  the  view  from  the  roof.  I'm  much  obliged 
to  the  gentleman." 

It  was  arranged  accordingly  that  we  should  ascend  to- 
gether. "Good  luck  to  you,"  cried  my  friend,  "and  mind 
you  take  good  care  of  her." 

Those  who  have  rambled  among  the  marble  immensities 
of  the  summit  of  Milan  Cathedral  will  hardly  expect  me  to 
describe  them.  It  is  only  when  they  have  been  seen  as  a 
complete  concentric  whole  that  they  can  be  properly  appre- 
ciated. It  was  not  as  a  whole  that  I  saw  them;  a  week  in 
Italy  had  assured  me  that  I  have  not  the  architectural  coup 
d'ceil.  In  looking  back  on  the  scene  into  which  we  emerged 
from  the  stifling  spiral  of  the  ascent,  I  have  chiefly  a  con- 
fused sense  of  an  immense  skyward  elevation  and  a  fierce 
blinding  efflorescence  of  fantastic  forms  of  marble.  There, 
reared  for  the  action  of  the  sun,  you  find  a  vast  marble 
world.  The  solid  whiteness  lies  in  mighty  slabs  along  the 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  7 

iridescent  slopes  of  nave  and  transept,  like  the  lonely  snow- 
fields  of  the  higher  Alps.  It  leaps  and  climbs  and  shoots 
and  attacks  the  unsheltered  blue  with  a  keen  and  joyous 
incision.  It  meets  the  pitiless  sun  with  a  more  than  equal 
glow;  the  day  falters,  declines,  expires,  but  the  marble 
shines  forever,  unmelted  and  unintermittent.  You  will 
know  what  I  mean  if  you  have  looked  upward  from  the 
Piazza  at  midnight.  With  confounding  frequency,  too,  on 
some  uttermost  point  of  a  pinnacle,  its  plastic  force  ex- 
plodes into  satisfied  rest  in  some  perfect  flower  of  a  figure. 
A  myriad  carven  statues,  known  only  to  the  circling  air, 
are  poised  and  niched  beyond  reach  of  human  vision,  the 
loss  of  which  to  mortal  eyes  is,  I  suppose,  the  gain  of  the 
Church  and  the  Lord.  Among  all  the  jewelled  shrines  and 
overwrought  tabernacles  of  Italy,  I  have  seen  no  such  mag- 
nificent waste  of  labor,  no  such  glorious  synthesis  of  cun- 
ning secrets.  As  you  wander,  sweating  and  blinking,  over 
the  changing  levels  of  the  edifice,  your  eye  catches  at  a 
hundred  points  the  little  profile  of  a  little  saint,  looking  out 
into  the  dizzy  air,  a  pair  of  folded  hands  praying  to  the 
bright  immediate  heavens,  a  sandalled  monkish  foot  planted 
on  the  edge  of  the  white  abyss.  And  then,  besides  this 
mighty  world  of  the  great  Cathedral  itself,  you  possess 
the  view  of  all  green  Lombardy, — vast,  lazy  Lombardy, 
resting  from  its  Alpine  upheavals. 

My  companion  carried  a  little  white  umbrella,  with  a 
violet  lining.  Thus  protected  from  the  sun,  she  climbed 
and  gazed  with  abundant  courage  and  spirit.  Her  move- 
ments, her  glance,  her  voice,  were  full  of  intelligent  pleas- 
ure. Now  that  I  could  observe  her  closely,  I  saw  that, 
though  perhaps  without  regular  beauty,  she  was  yet,  for 
youth,  summer,  and  Italy,  more  than  pretty  enough.  Ow- 
ing to  my  residence  in  Germany,  among  Germans,  in  a 
small  university  town,  Americans  had  come  to  have  for 
me,  in  a  large  degree,  the  interest  of  novelty  and  remote- 
ness. Of  the  charm  of  American  women,  in  especial,  I  had 
formed  a  very  high  estimate,  and  I  was  more  than  ready 
to  be  led  captive  by  the  far-famed  graces  of  their  frank- 
ness and  freedom.  I  already  felt  that  in  the  young  girl 


8  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

beside  me  there  was  a  different  quality  of  womanhood  from 
any  that  I  had  recently  known;  a  keenness,  a  maturity,  a 
conscience,  which  deeply  stirred  my  curiosity.  It  was 
positive,  not  negative  maidenhood. 

"You're  an  American,"  I  said,  as  we  stepped  to  look  at 
the  distance. 

"Yes;  and  you?"  In  her  voice  alone  the  charm  faltered. 
It  was  high,  thin,  and  nervous. 

"Oh,  happily,  I'm  also  one." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  so.  I  should  have  taken  you 
for  a  German." 

"By  education  I  am  a  German.  I  knew  you  were  an 
American  the  moment  I  looked  at  you." 

"I  suppose  so.  It  seems  that  American  women  are  easily 
recognized.  But  don't  talk  about  America."  She  paused 
and  swept  her  dark  eye  over  the  whole  immensity  of  pros- 
pect. "This  is  Italy,"  she  cried,  "Italy,  Italy!" 

"Italy  indeed.    What  do  you  think  of  the  Leonardo?" 

"I  fancy  there  can  be  only  one  feeling  about  it.  It  must 
be  the  saddest  and  finest  of  all  pictures.  But  I  know 
nothing  of  art.  I  have  seen  nothing  yet  but  that  lovely 
Raphael  in  the  Brera." 

"You  have  a  vast  deal  before  you.  You're  going  south- 
ward, I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  we  are  going  directly  to  Venice.  There  I  shall  see 
Titian." 

"Titian  and  Paul  Veronese." 

"Yes,  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  Have  you  ever  been  in  a 
gondola?" 

"No;  this  is  my  first  visit  to  Italy." 

"Ah,  this  is  all  new,  then,  to  you  as  well." 

"Divinely  new,"  said  I,  with  fervor. 

She  glanced  at  me,  with  a  smile, — a  ray  of  friendly  pleas- 
ure in  my  pleasure.  "And  you  are  not  disappointed!" 

"Not  a  jot.    I'm  too  good  a  German." 

"I'm  too  good  an  American.  I  live  at  Araminta,  New 
Jersey!" 

We  thoroughly  "did"  the  high  places  of  the  church,  con- 
cluding with  an  ascent  into  the  little  gallery  of  the  central 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  9 

spire.  The  view  from  this  spot  is  beyond  all  words,  espe- 
cially the  view  toward  the  long  mountain  line  which  shuts 
out  the  North.  The  sun  was  sinking:  clear  and  serene 
upon  their  blue  foundations,  the  snow-peaks  sat  clustered 
and  scattered,  and  shrouded  in  silence  and  light.  To  the 
south  the  long  shadows  fused  and  multiplied,  and  the  bosky 
Lombard  flats  melted  away  into  perfect  Italy.  This  pros- 
pect offers  a  great  emotion  to  the  Northern  traveler.  A 
vague,  delicious  impulse  of  conquest  stirs  in  his  heart. 
From  his  dizzy  vantage-point,  as  he  looks  down  at  her, 
beautiful,  historic,  exposed,  he  embraces  the  whole  land 
in  the  far-reaching  range  of  his  desire.  "That  is  Monte 
Rosa,"  I  said;  "that  is  the  Simplon  pass;  there  is  the  triple 
glitter  of  those  lovely  lakes." 

"Poor  Monte  Rosa,"  said  my  companion. 

"I'm  sure  I  never  thought  of  Monte  Rosa  as  an  object 
of  pity." 

"You  don't  know  what  she  represents.  She  represents 
the  genius  of  the  North.  There  she  stands,  frozen  and 
fixed,  resting  her  head  upon  that  mountain  wall,  looking 
over  at  this  lovely  southern  world  and  yearning  towards 
it  forever  in  vain." 

"It  is  very  well  she  can't  come  over.    She  would  melt." 

"Very  true.  She  is  beautiful,  too,  in  her  own  way.  I 
mean  to  fancy  that  I  am  her  chosen  envoy,  and  that  I  have 
come  up  here  to  receive  her  blessing." 

I  made  an  attempt  to  point  out  a  few  localities.  "Yon- 
der lies  Venice,  out  of  sight.  In  the  interval  are  a  dozen 
divine  little  towns.  I  hope  to  visit  them  all.  I  shall  ram- 
ble all  day  in  their  streets  and  churches,  their  little  mu- 
seums, and  their  great  palaces.  In  the  evening  I  shall  sit 
at  the  door  of  a  cafe  in  the  little  piazza,  scanning  some 
lovely  civic  edifice  in  the  moonlight,  and  saying,  'Ah!  this 
is  Italy!'" 

"You  gentlemen  are  certainly  very  happy.  I'm  afraid  we 
must  go  straight  to  Venice." 

"Your  father  insists  upon  it?" 

"He  wishes  it.  Poor  father!  in  early  life  he  formed  the 
habit  of  being  in  a  hurry,  and  he  can't  break  it  even  now, 


io  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

when,  being  out  of  business,  he  has  nothing  on  earth  to  do." 

"But  in  America  I  thought  daughters  insisted  as  well  as 
fathers." 

The  young  girl  looked  at  me,  half  serious,  half  smiling. 
"Have  you  a  mother?"  she  asked;  and  then,  blushing  the 
least  bit  at  her  directness  and  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, "This  is  not  America,"  she  said.  "I  should  like  to 
think  I  might  become  for  a  while  a  creature  of  Italy." 

Somehow  I  felt  a  certain  contagion  in  her  momentary 
flash  of  frankness.  "I  strongly  suspect,"  I  said,  "that  you 
are  American  to  the  depths  of  your  soul,  and  that  you'll 
never  be  anything  else;  I  hope  not." 

In  this  hope  of  mine  there  was  perhaps  a  little  imper- 
tinence; but  my  companion  looked  at  me  with  a  gentle 
smile,  which  seemed  to  hint  that  she  forgave  it.  "You, 
on  the  other  hand,"  she  said,  "are  a  perfect  German,  I 
fancy;  and  you'll  never  be  anything  else." 

"I  am  sure  I  wish  with  all  my  heart,"  I  answered,  "to 
be  a  good  American.  I'm  open  to  conversion.  Try  me." 

"Thank  you;  I  haven't  the  ardor;  I'll  make  you  over 
to  my  father.  We  mustn't  forget,  by  the  way,  that  he  is 
waiting  for  us." 

We  did  forget  it,  however,  awhile  longer.  We  came  down 
from  the  tower  and  made  our  way  to  the  balustrade  which 
edges  the  front  of  the  edifice,  and  looked  down  on  the  city 
and  the  piazza  below.  Milan  had,  to  my  sense,  a  peculiar 
charm  of  temperate  gayety, — the  softness  of  the  South  with- 
out its  laxity;  and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  gladly  spend  a  month 
there.  The  common  life  of  the  streets  was  beginning  to  stir 
and  murmur  again,  with  the  subsiding  heat  and  the  ap- 
proaching night.  There  came  up  into  our  faces  a  delicious 
emanation  as  from  the  sweetness  of  Transalpine  life.  At 
the  little  balconies  of  the  windows,  beneath  the  sloping  awn- 
ings, with  their  feet  among  the  crowded  flower-pots  and 
their  plump  bare  arms  on  the  iron  rails,  lazy,  dowdy  Italian 
beauties  would  appear,  still  drowsy  with  the  broken  siesta. 
Beautiful,  slim  young  officers  had  begun  to  dot  the  pave- 
ment, glorious  with  their  clanking  swords,  their  brown 
mustaches,  and  their  legs  of  azure.  In  gentle  harmony 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  II 

with  these,  various  ladies  of  Milan  were  issuing  forth  to 
enjoy  the  cool;  elegant,  romantic,  provoking,  in  short  black 
dresses  and  lace  mantillas  depending  from  their  chignons, 
with  a  little  cloud  of  powder  artfully  enhancing  the  dark- 
ness of  their  hair  and  eyes.  How  it  all  wasn't  Germany! 
how  it  couldn't  have  been  Araminta,  New  Jersey!  "It's 
the  South,  the  South,"  I  kept  repeating,— "the  South  in 
nature,  in  man,  in  manners."  It  was  a  brighter  world'. 
"It's  the  South,"  I  said  to  my  companion.  "Don't  you  feel 
it  in  all  your  nerves?" 

"O,  it's  very  pleasant,"  she  said. 

"We  must  forget  all  our  cares  and  duties  and  sorrows. 
We  must  go  in  for  the  beautiful.  Think  of  this  great  trap 
for  the  sunbeams,  in  this  city  of  yellows  and  russets  and 
crimsons,  of  liquid  vowels  and  glancing  smiles  being,  like 
one  of  our  Northern  cathedrals,  a  temple  to  Morality  and 
Conscience.  It  doesn't  belong  to  heaven,  but  to  earth, — 
to  love  and  light  and  pleasure." 

My  friend  was  silent  a  moment.  "I'm  glad  I'm  not  a 
Catholic,"  she  said  at  last.  "Come,  we  must  go  down." 

We  found  the  interior  of  the  Cathedral  delightfully  cool 
and  shadowy.  The  young  lady's  father  was  not  at  our  place 
of  ingress,  and  we  began  to  walk  through  the  church  in 
search  of  him.  We  met  a  number  of  Milanese  ladies,  who 
charmed  us  with  their  sombre  elegance  and  the  Spanish  ro- 
mance of  their  veils.  With  these  pale  penitents  and  postu- 
lants my  companion  had  a  lingering  sisterly  sympathy. 

"Don't  you  wish  you  were  a  Catholic  now?"  I  asked.  "It 
would  be  so  pleasant  to  wear  one  of  those  lovely  mantillas." 

"The  mantillas  are  certainly  becoming,"  she  said.  "But 
who  knows  what  horrible  old-world  sorrows  and  fears  and 
remorses  they  cover?  Look  at  this  person."  We  were 
standing  near  the  great  altar.  As  she  spoke,  a  woman 
rose  from  her  knees,  and  as  she  drew  the  folds  of  her  lace 
mantle  across  her  bosom,  fixed  her  large  dark  eyes  on  us 
with  a  peculiar  significant  intensity.  She  was  of  less  than 
middle  age,  with  a  pale,  haggard  face,  a  certain  tarnished 
elegance  of  dress,  and  a  remarkable  nobleness  of  gesture  and 
carriage.  She  came  towards  us,  with  an  odd  mixture,  in 


12  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

her  whole  expression,  of  decency  and  defiance.  "Are  you 
English?"  she  said  in  Italian.  "You  are  very  pretty.  Is 
he  a  brother  or  a  lover?" 

"He  is  neither,"  said  I,  affecting  a  tone  of  rebuke. 

"Neither?  only  a  friend!  You  are  very  happy  to  have 
a  friend,  Signorina.  Ah,  you  are  pretty!  You  were  watch- 
ing me  at  my  prayers  just  now;  you  thought  me  very  curi- 
ous, apparently.  I  don't  care.  You  may  see  me  here  any 
day.  But  I  devoutly  hope  you  may  never  have  to  pray 
such  bitter,  bitter  prayers  as  mine.  A  thousand  excuses." 
And  she  went  her  way. 

"What  in  the  world  does  she  mean?"  said  my  companion. 

"Monte  Rosa,"  said  I,  "was  the  genius  of  the  North. 
This  poor  woman  is  the  genius  of  the  Picturesque.  She 
shows  us  the  essential  misery  that  lies  behind  it.  It's  not 
an  unwholesome  lesson  to  receive  at  the  outset.  Look  at 
her  sweeping  down  the  aisle.  What  a  poise  of  the  head! 
The  picturesque  is  handsome,  all  the  same." 

"I  do  wonder  what  is  her  trouble,"  murmured  the  young 
girl.  "She  has  swept  away  an  illusion  in  the  folds  of  those 
black  garments." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "here  is  a  solid  fact  to  replace  it."  My 
eyes  had  just  lighted  upon  the  object  of  our  search.  He  sat 
in  a  chair,  half  tilted  back  against  a  pillar.  His  chin 
rested  on  his  shirt-bosom,  and  his  hands  were  folded  to- 
gether over  his  waistcoat,  where  it  most  protruded.  Shirt 
and  waistcoat  rose  and  fell  with  visible,  audible  regularity. 
I  wandered  apart  and  left  his  daughter  to  deal  with  him. 
When  she  had  fairly  aroused  him,  he  thanked  me  heartily 
for  my  care  of  the  young  lady,  and  expressed  the  wish  that 
we  might  meet  again.  "We  start  to-morrow  for  Venice," 
he  said.  "I  want  awfully  to  get  a  whiff  of  the  sea-breeze 
and  to  see  if  there  is  anything  to  be  got  out  of  a  gondola." 

As  I  expected  also  to  be  in  Venice  before  many  days,  I 
had  little  doubt  of  our  meeting.  In  consideration  of  this 
circumstance,  my  friend  proposed  that  we  should  exchange 
cards;  which  we  accordingly  did,  then  and  there,  before  the 
high  altar,  above  the  gorgeous  chapel  which  enshrines  the 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  13 

relics  of  St.  Charles  Borromeus.  It  was  thus  that  I  learned 
his  name  to  be  Mr.  Mark  Evans. 

"Take  a  few  notes  for  us!"  said  Miss  Evans,  as  I  shook 
her  hand  in  farewell. 

I  spent  the  evening,  after  dinner,  strolling  among  the 
crowded  streets  of  the  city,  tasting  of  Milanese  humanity. 
At  the  door  of  a  cafe  I  perceived  Mr.  Evans  seated  at  a 
little  round  table.  He  seemed  to  have  discovered  the  merits 
of  absinthe.  I  wondered  where  he  had  left  his  daughter. 
She  was  in  her  room,  I  fancied,  writing  her  journal. 

The  fortnight  which  followed  my  departure  from  Milan 
was  in  all  respects  memorable  and  delightful.  With  an  in- 
terest that  hourly  deepened  as  I  read,  I  turned  the  early 
pages  of  the  enchanting  romance  of  Italy.  I  carried  out 
in  detail  the  programme  which  I  had  sketched  for  Miss 
Evans.  Those  few  brief  days,  as  I  look  back  on  them, 
seem  to  me  the  sweetest,  fullest,  calmest  of  my  life.  All 
personal  passions,  all  restless  egotism,  all  worldly  hopes, 
regrets,  and  fears  were  stilled  and  absorbed  in  the  steady 
perception  of  the  material  present.  It  exhaled  the  pure 
essence  of  romance.  What  words  can  reproduce  the  pic- 
ture which  these  Northern  Italian  towns  project  upon  a 
sympathetic  retina?  They  are  shabby,  deserted,  dreary, 
decayed,  unclean.  In  those  August  days  the  southern  sun 
poured  into  them  with  a  fierceness  which  might  have  seemed 
fatal  to  any  lurking  shadow  of  picturesque  mystery.  But 
taking  them  as  cruel  time  had  made  them  and  left  them, 
I  found  in  them  an  immeasurable  instruction  and  charm. 
My  perception  seemed  for  the  first  time  to  live  a  sturdy 
creative  life  of  its  own.  How  it  fed  upon  the  mouldy 
crumbs  of  the  festal  past!  I  have  always  thought  the  ob- 
servant faculty  a  windy  impostor,  so  long  as  it  refuses  to 
pocket  pride  and  doff  its  bravery  and  crawl  on  all-fours, 
if  need  be,  into  the  unillumined  corners  and  crannies  of  life. 
In  these  dead  cities  of  Verona,  Mantua,  Padua,  how  life  had 
revelled  and  postured  in  its  strength!  How  sentiment  and 
passion  had  blossomed  and  flowered!  How  much  of  his- 
tory had  been  performed!  What  a  wealth  of  mortality 
had  ripened  and  decayed!  I  have  never  elsewhere  got  so 


I4  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

deep  an  impression  of  the  social  secrets  of  mankind.  In 
England,  even,  in  those  verdure-stifled  haunts  of  domestic 
peace  which  muffle  the  sounding  chords  of  British  civiliza- 
tion, one  has  a  fainter  sense  of  the  possible  movement  and 
fruition  of  individual  character.  Beyond  a  certain  point 
you  fancy  it  merged  in  the  general  medium  of  duty,  busi- 
ness, and  politics.  In  Italy,  in  spite  of  your  knowledge  of 
the  strenuous  public  conscience  which  once  inflamed  these 
compact  little  states,  the  unapplied,  spontaneous  moral  life 
of  society  seems  to  have  been  more  active  and  more  subtle. 
I  walked  about  with  a  volume  of  Stendhal  in  my  pocket; 
at  every  step  I  gathered  some  lingering  testimony  to  the 
exquisite  vanity  of  ambition. 

But  the  great  emotion,  after  all,  was  to  feel  myself  among 
scenes  in  which  art  had  ranged  so  freely.  It  had  often 
enough  been  bad,  but  it  had  never  ceased  to  be  art.  An 
invincible  instinct  of  beauty  had  presided  at  life, — an  in- 
stinct often  ludicrously  crude  and  primitive.  Wherever  I 
turned  I  found  a  vital  principle  of  grace, — from  the  smile 
of  a  chambermaid  to  the  curve  of  an  arch.  My  memory 
reverts  with  an  especial  tenderness  to  certain  hours  in  the 
dusky,  faded  saloons  of  those  vacant,  ruinous  palaces  which 
boast  of  "collections."  The  pictures  are  frequently  poor, 
but  the  visitor's  impression  is  generally  rich.  The  brick- 
tiled  floors  are  bare;  the  doors  lack  paint;  the  great  win- 
dows, curtains;  the  chairs  and  tables  have  lost  their  gilding 
and  their  damask  drapery;  but  the  ghost  of  a  graceful  aris- 
tocracy treads  at  your  side  and  does  the  melancholy  honors 
of  the  abode  with  a  dignity  that  brooks  no  sarcasm.  You 
feel  that  art  and  piety  here  have  been  blind,  generous  in- 
stincts. You  are  reminded  in  persuasive  accents  of  the  old 
personal  regimen  in  human  affairs.  Certain  pictures  are 
veiled  and  curtained  virginibus  puerisque.  Through  these 
tarnished  halls  lean  and  patient  abbes  led  their  youthful 
virginal  pupils.  Have  you  read  Stendhal's  Chartreuse  de 
Par  me?  There  was  such  a  gallery  in  the  palace  of  the 
Duchess  of  San  Severino.  After  a  long  day  of  strolling, 
lounging,  and  staring,  I  found  a  singularly  perfect  pleasure 
in  sitting  at  the  door  of  a  cafe  in  the  warm  starlight,  eating 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  15 

an  ice  and  making  an  occasional  experiment  in  the  way  of 
talk  with  my  neighbors.  I  recall  with  peculiar  fondness  and 
delight  three  sweet  sessions  in  the  delicious  Piazza  dei  Sig- 
nori  at  Verona.  The  Piazza,  is  small,  compact,  private 
almost,  accessible  only  to  pedestrians,  paved  with  great 
slabs  which  have  known  none  but  a  gentle  human  tread. 
On  one  side  of  it  rises  in  elaborate  elegance  and  grace, 
above  its  light  arched  loggia,  the  image-bordered  mass  of 
the  ancient  palace  of  the  Council;  facing  this  stand  two 
sterner,  heavier  buildings,  dedicated  to  municipal  offices 
and  to  the  lodgment  of  soldiers.  Step  through  the  arch- 
way which  leads  out  of  the  Piazza,  and  you  will  find  a  vast 
quadrangle  with  a  staircase  climbing  sunward,  along  the 
wall,  a  row  of  gendarmes  sitting  in  the  shade,  a  group  of 
soldiers  cleaning  their  muskets,  a  dozen  persons  of  either 
sex  leaning  downward  from  the  open  windows.  At  one  end 
of  the  little  square  rose  into  the  pale  darkness  the  high 
slender  shaft  of  a  brick  campanile;  in  the  centre  glittered 
steadily  a  colossal  white  statue  of  Dante.  Behind  this 
statue  was  the  Caffe  Dante,  where  on  three  successive  days 
I  sat  till  midnight,  feeling  the  scene,  learning  its  sovereign 
"distinction."  But  of  Verona  I  shall  not  pretend  to  speak. 
As  I  drew  near  Venice  I  began  to  feel  a  soft  impatience,  an 
expectant  tremor  of  the  heart.  The  day  before  reaching 
it  I  spent  at  Vicenza.  I  wandered  all  day  through  the 
streets,  of  course,  looking  at  Palladio's  palaces  and  enjoying 
them  in  defiance  of  reason  and  Ruskin.  They  seemed  to  me 
essentially  rich  and  palatial.  In  the  evening  I  resorted,  as 
usual,  to  the  city's  generous  heart,  the  decayed  ex-glorious 
Piazza,.  This  spot  of  Vicenza  affords  you  a  really  soul-stir- 
ring premonition  of  Venice.  There  is  no  Byzantine  Basilica 
and  no  Ducal  Palace;  but  there  is  an  immense  impressive 
hall  of  council,  and  a  soaring  campanile,  and  there  are  two 
discrowned  columns  telling  of  defeated  Venetian  dominion. 
Here  I  seated  myself  before  a  cafe  door,  in  a  group  of  gos- 
siping votaries  of  the  Southern  night.  The  tables  being 
mostly  occupied,  I  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  one.  In  a 
short  time  I  perceived  a  young  man  walking  through  the 
crowd,  seeking  where  he  might  bestow  himself.  Passing 


1 6  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

near  me,  he  stopped  and  asked  me  with  irresistible  grace 
if  he  might  share  my  table.  I  cordially  assented:  he  sat 
down  and  ordered  a  glass  of  sugar  and  water.  He  was  of 
about  my  own  age,  apparently,  and  full  of  the  opulent 
beauty  of  the  greater  number  of  young  Italians.  His  dress 
was  simple  even  to  shabbiness:  he  might  have  been  a  young 
prince  in  disguise,  a  Haroun-al-Raschid.  With  small  delay 
we  engaged  in  conversation.  My  companion  was  boyish, 
modest,  and  gracious;  he  nevertheless  discoursed  freely  on 
the  things  of  Vicenza.  He  was  so  good  as  to  regret  that  we 
had  not  met  earlier  in  the  day;  it  would  have  given  him 
such  pleasure  to  accompany  me  on  my  tour  of  the  city.  He 
was  passionately  fond  of  art:  he  was  in  fact  an  artist. 
Was  I  fond  of  pictures?  Was  I  inclined  to  purchase?  I 
answered  that  I  had  no  desire  to  purchase  modern  pictures, 
that  in  fact  I  had  small  means  to  purchase  any.  He  in- 
formed me  that  he  had  a  beautiful  ancient  work  which,  to 
his  great  regret,  he  found  himself  compelled  to  sell;  a  most 
divine  little  Correggio.  Would  I  do  him  the  favor  to  look 
at  it?  I  had  small  belief  in  the  value  of  this  unrenowned 
masterpiece;  but  I  felt  a  kindness  for  the  young  painter. 
I  consented  to  have  him  call  for  me  the  next  morning  and 
take  me  to  his  house,  where  for  two  hundred  years,  he 
assured  me,  the  work  had  been  jealously  preserved. 

He  came  punctually,  beautiful,  smiling,  shabby,  as  be- 
fore. After  a  ten  minutes'  walk  we  stopped  before  a  gaudy 
half-palazzo  which  rejoiced  in  a  vague  Palladian  air.  In  the 
basement,  looking  on  the  court,  lived  my  friend;  with  his 
mother,  he  informed  me,  i.ad  his  sister.  He  ushered  me  in, 
through  a  dark  antechamber,  into  which,  through  a  gaping 
kitchen  door,  there  gushed  a  sudden  aroma  of  onions.  I 
found  myself  In  a  high,  half-darkened  saloon.  One  of  the 
windows  was  open  into  the  court,  from  which  the  light  en- 
tered verdantly  through  a  row  of  flowering  plants.  In  an 
armchair  near  the  window  sat  a  young  girl  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  empty-handed,  pale,  with  wonderful  eyes,  apparently 
an  invalid.  At  her  side  stood  a  large  elderly  woman  in  a 
rusty  black  silk  gown,  with  an  agreeable  face,  flushed  a  little, 
apparently  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  me.  The  young 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  17 

man  introduced  them  as  his  mother  and  his  sister.  On  a 
table  near  the  window,  propped  upright  in  such  a  way  as 
to  catch  the  light,  was  a  small  picture  in  a  heavy  frame. 
I  proceeded  to  examine  it.  It  represented  in  simple  compo- 
sition a  Madonna  and  Child;  the  mother  facing  you,  press- 
ing the  infant  to  her  bosom,  faintly  smiling,  and  looking 
out  of  the  picture  with  a  solemn  sweetness.  It  was  pretty, 
it  was  good;  but  it  was  not  Correggio.  There  was  indeed 
a  certain  suggestion  of  his  exquisite  touch;  but  it  was  a 
likeness  merely,  and  not  the  precious  reality.  One  fact, 
however,  struck  swiftly  home  to  my  consciousness:  the  face 
of  the  Madonna  bore  a  singular  resemblance  to  that  of  Miss 
Evans.  The  lines,  the  character,  the  expression,  were  the 
same ;  the  faint  half- thoughtful  smile  was  hers,  the  feminine 
frankness  and  gentle  confidence  of  the  brow,  from  which 
the  dark  hair  waved  back  with  the  same  even  abundance. 
All  this,  in  the  Madonna's  face,  was  meant  for  heaven ;  and 
on  Miss  Evans's  in  a  fair  degree,  probably,  for  earth.  But 
the  mutual  likeness  was,  nevertheless,  perfect,  and  it  quick- 
ened my  interest  in  the  picture  to  a  point  which  the  intrin- 
sic merit  of  the  work  would  doubtless  have  failed  to  justify; 
although  I  confess  that  I  was  now  not  slow  to  discover  a 
great  deal  of  agreeable  painting  in  it. 

"But  I  doubt  of  its  being  a  Correggio,"  said  I. 

"A  Correggio,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  sir!"  cried 
my  young  man. 

"Ecco!  my  son's  word  of  honor,"  cried  his  mother. 

"I  don't  deny,"  I  said,  "that  it  is  a  very  pretty  work.  It 
is  perhaps  Parmigianino." 

"O  no,  sir,"  the  elder  insisted,  "a  true  Correggio!  We 
have  had  it  two  hundred  years!  Try  another  light;  you 
will  see.  A  true  Correggio!  Isn't  it  so,  my  daughter?" 

The  young  man  put  his  arm  in  mine,  played  his  fingers 
airily  over  the  picture,  and  whispered  of  a  dozen  beauties. 

"O,  I  grant  you,"  said  I,  "it's  a  very  pretty  picture."  As 
I  looked  at  it  I  felt  the  dark  eyes  of  the  young  girl  in  the 
arm-chair  fixed  upon  me  with  almost  unpleasant  intensity. 
I  met  her  gaze  for  a  moment:  I  found  in  it  a  strange  union 
of  defiant  pride  and  sad  despondent  urgency. 


1 8  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"What  do  you  ask  for  the  picture?"  I  said. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Speak,  madre  mia,"  said  the  young  man. 

"La  sent  a  I"  and  the  lady  played  with  her  broken  fan. 
"We  should  like  you  to  name  a  price." 

"O,  if  I  named  a  price,  it  would  not  be  as  for  a  Correg- 
gio.  I  can't  afford  to  buy  Correggios.  If  this  were  a  real 
Correggio,  you  would  be  rich.  You  should  go  to  a  duke, 
a  prince,  not  to  me." 

"We  would  be  rich!  Do  you  hear,  my  children?  We 
are  very  poor,  sir.  You  have  only  to  look  at  us.  Look  at 
my  poor  daughter.  She  was  once  beautiful,  fresh,  gay.  A 
year  ago  she  fell  ill:  a  long  story,  sir,  and  a  sad  one.  We 
have  had  doctors;  they  have  ordered  five  thousand  things. 
My  daughter  gets  no  better.  There  it  is,  sir.  We  are  very 
poor." 

The  young  girl's  look  confirmed  her  mother's  story. 
That  she  had  been  beautiful  I  could  easily  believe;  that 
she  was  ill  was  equally  apparent.  She  was  still  remarkable 
indeed  for  a  touching,  hungry,  unsatisfied  grace.  She  re- 
mained silent  and  motionless,  with  her  eyes  fastened  upon 
my  face.  I  again  examined  the  pretended  Correggio.  It 
was  wonderfully  like  Miss  Evans.  The  young  American 
rose  up  in  my  mind  with  irresistible  vividness  and  grace. 
How  she  seemed  to  glow  with  strength,  freedom,  and  joy, 
beside  this  sombre,  fading,  Southern  sister!  It  was  a 
happy  thought  that,  under  the  benediction  of  her  image,  I 
might  cause  a  ray  of  healing  sunshine  to  fall  at  this  poor 
girl's  feet. 

"Have  you  ever  tried  to  sell  the  picture  before?" 

"Never!"  said  the  old  lady,  proudly.  "My  husband  had 
it  from  his  father.  If  we  have  made  up  our  minds  to  part 
with  it  now, — most  blessed  little  Madonna! — it  is  because 
we  have  had  an  intimation  from  heaven." 

"From  heaven?" 

"From  heaven,  Signore.  My  daughter  had  a  dream. 
She  dreamed  that  a  young  stranger  came  to  Vicenza,  and 
that  he  wandered  about  the  streets  saying,  'Where,  ah 
where,  is  my  blessed  Lady?'  Some  told  him  in  one  church, 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  19 

and  some  told  him  in  another.  He  went  into  all  the 
churches  and  lifted  all  the  curtains,  giving  great  fees  to  the 
sacristans!  But  he  always  came  out  shaking  his  head  and 
repeating  his  question,  'Where  is  my  blessed  Lady?  I  have 
come  from  over  the  sea,  I  have  come  to  Italy  to  find  her!'  " 
The  woman  delivered  herself  of  this  recital  with  a  noble 
florid  unction  and  a  vast  redundancy,  to  my  Northern  ear, 
of  delightful  liquid  sounds.  As  she  paused  momentarily, 
her  daughter  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"And  then  I  fancied,"  said  the  young  girl,  "that  I  heard 
his  voice  pausing  under  my  window  at  night.  'His  blessed 
Lady  is  here,'  I  said,  'we  must  not  let  him  lose  her.'  So  I 
called  my  brother  and  bade  him  go  forth  in  search  of  you. 
I  dreamed  that  he  brought  you  back.  We  made  an  altar 
with  candles  and  lace  and  flowers,  and  on  it  we  placed  the 
little  picture.  The  stranger  had  light  hair,  light  eyes,  a 
flowing  beard  like  you.  He  kneeled  down  before  the  little 
Madonna  and  worshipped  her.  We  left  him  at  his  devo- 
tions and  went  away.  When  we  came  back  the  candles  on 
the  altar  were  out:  the  Madonna  was  gone,  too;  but  in  its 
place  there  burned  a  bright  pure  light.  It  was  a  purse  of 
gold!" 

"What  a  very  pretty  story!"  said  I.  "How  many  pieces 
were  there  in  the  purse?" 

The  young  man  burst  into  a  laugh.  "Twenty  thousand!" 
he  said. 

I  made  my  offer  for  the  picture.  It  was  esteemed  gen- 
erous apparently;  I  was  cordially  thanked.  As  it  was  in- 
convenient, however,  to  take  possession  of  the  work  at  that 
moment,  I  agreed  to  pay  down  but  half  the  sum,  reserving 
the  other  half  to  the  time  of  delivery.  When  I  prepared  to 
take  my  departure  the  young  girl  rose  from  her  chair  and 
enabled  me  to  measure  at  once  her  weakness  and  her 
beauty.  "Will  you  come  back  for  the  picture  yourself?" 
she  asked. 

"Possibly.  I  should  like  to  see  you  again.  You  must 
get  better." 

"O,  I  shall  never  get  better." 


20  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"I  can't  believe  that.  I  shall  perhaps  have  a  dream  to 
tell  you!" 

"I  shall  soon  be  in  heaven.    I  shall  send  you  one." 

"Listen  to  her!"  cried  the  mother.  "But  she  is  already 
an  angel." 

With  a  farewell  glance  at  my  pictured  Madonna  I  de- 
parted. My  visit  to  this  little  Vicenza  household  had  filled 
me  with  a  painful,  indefinable  sadness.  So  beautiful  they 
all  were,  so  civil,  so  charming,  and  yet  so  mendacious  and 
miserable!  As  I  hurried  along  in  the  train  toward  the 
briny  cincture  of  Venice,  my  heart  was  heavy  with  the 
image  of  that  sombre,  dying  Italian  maiden.  Her  face 
haunted  me.  What  fatal  wrong  had  she  suffered?  What 
hidden  sorrow  had  blasted  the  freshness  of  her  youth?  As 
I  began  to  smell  the  nearing  Adriatic,  my  fancy  bounded 
forward  to  claim  asylum  in  the  calmer  presence  of  my 
bright  American  friend.  I  have  no  space  to  tell  the  story 
of  my  arrival  in  Venice  and  my  first  impressions.  Mr. 
Evans  had  not  mentioned  his  hotel.  He  was  not  at  the 
Hotel  de  1'Europe,  whither  I  myself  repaired.  If  he  was 
still  in  Venice,  however,  I  foresaw  that  we  should  not  fail 
to  meet.  The  day  succeeding  my  arrival  I  spent  in  a  rest- 
less fever  of  curiosity  and  delight,  now  lost  in  the  sensuous 
ease  of  my  gondola,  now  lingering  in  charmed  devotion  be- 
fore a  canvas  of  Tintoretto  or  Paul  Veronese.  I  exhausted 
three  gondoliers  and  saw  all  Venice  in  a  passionate  fury  and 
haste.  I  wished  to  probe  its  fulness  and  learn  at  once  the 
best — or  the  worst.  Late  in  the  afternoon  I  disembarked 
at  the  Piazzetta  and  took  my  way  haltingly  and  gazingly 
to  the  many-domed  Basilica, — that  shell  of  silver  with  a 
lining  of  marble.  It  was  that  enchanting  Venetian  hour 
when  the  ocean-touching  sun  sits  melting  to  death,  and  the 
whole  still  air  seems  to  glow  with  the  soft  effusion  of  his 
golden  substance.  Within  the  church,  the  deep  brown 
shadow-masses,  the  heavy  thick-tinted  air,  the  gorgeous 
composite  darkness,  reigned  in  richer,  quainter,  more  fan- 
tastic gloom  than  my  feeble  pen  can  reproduce  the  like- 
ness of.  From  those  rude  concavities  of  dome  and  semi- 
dome,  where  the  multitudinous  facets  of  pictorial  mosaic 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  21 

shimmer  and  twinkle  in  their  own  dull  brightness;  from  the 
vast  antiquity  of  innumerable  marbles,  incrusting  the  walls 
in  roughly  mated  slabs,  cracked  and  polished  and  triple- 
tinted  with  eternal  service;  from  the  wavy  carpet  of  com- 
pacted stone,  where  a  thousand  once-lighted  fragments 
glimmer  through  the  long  attrition  of  idle  feet  and  devoted 
knees;  from  sombre  gold  and  mellow  alabaster,  from  por- 
phyry and  malachite,  from  long  dead  crystal  and  the 
sparkle  of  undying  lamps, — there  proceeds  a  dense  rich 
atmosphere  of  splendor  and  sanctity  which  transports  the 
half-stupefied  traveller  to  the  age  of  a  simpler  and  more 
awful  faith.  I  wandered  for  half  an  hour  beneath  those 
reverted  cups  of  scintillating  darkness,  stumbling  on  the 
great  stony  swells  of  the  pavement  as  I  gazed  upward  at 
the  long  mosaic  saints  who  curve  gigantically  with  the 
curves  of  dome  and  ceiling.  I  had  left  Europe;  I  was  in  the 
East.  An  overwhelming  sense  of  the  sadness  of  man's 
spiritual  history  took  possession  of  my  heart.  The  cluster- 
ing picturesque  shadows  about  me  seemed  to  represent  the 
darkness  of  a  past  from  which  he  had  slowly  and  painfully 
struggled.  The  great  mosaic  images,  hideous,  grotesque, 
inhuman,  glimmered  like  the  cruel  spectres  of  early  super- 
stitions and  terrors.  There  came  over  me,  too,  a  poignant 
conviction  of  the  ludicrous  folly  of  the  idle  spirit  of  travel. 
How  with  Murray  and  an  opera-glass  it  strolls  and  stares 
where  omniscient  angels  stand  diffident  and  sad!  How 
blunted  and  stupid  are  its  senses!  How  trivial  and  super- 
ficial its  imaginings!  To  this  builded  sepulchre  of  trem- 
bling hope  and  dread,  this  monument  of  mighty  passions,  I 
had  wandered  in  search  of  pictorial  effects.  O  vulgarity! 
Of  course  I  remained,  nevertheless,  still  curious  of  effects. 
Suddenly  I  perceived  a  very  agreeable  one.  Kneeling  on  a 
low  prie-dieu,  with  her  hands  clasped,  a  lady  was  gazing 
upward  at  the  great  mosaic  Christ  in  the  dome  of  the  choir. 
She  wore  a  black  lace  shawl  and  a  purple  hat.  She  was 
Miss  Evans.  Her  attitude  slightly  puzzled  me.  Was  she 
really  at  her  devotions,  or  was  she  only  playing  at  prayer? 
I  walked  to  a  distance,  so  that  she  might  have  time  to 
move  before  I  addressed  her.  Five  minutes  afterwards, 


22  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

however,  she  was  in  the  same  position.  I  walked  slowly  to- 
wards her,  and  as  I  approached  her  attracted  her  attention. 
She  immediately  recognized  me  and  smiled  and  bowed, 
without  moving  from  her  place. 

"I  saw  you  five  minutes  ago,"  I  said,  "but  I  was  afraid 
of  interrupting  your  prayers." 

"O,  they  were  only  half-prayers,"  she  said. 

"Half-prayers  are  pretty  well  for  one  who  only  the  other 
day  was  thanking  Heaven  that  she  was  not  a  Catholic." 

"Half-prayers  are  no  prayers.    I'm  not  a  Catholic  yet." 

Her  father,  she  told  me,  had  brought  her  to  the  church, 
but  had  returned  on  foot  to  the  hotel  for  his  pocket-book. 
They  were  to  dine  at  one  of  the  restaurants  in  the  Piazza,. 
Mr.  Evans  was  vastly  contented  with  Venice,  and  spent  his 
days  and  nights  in  gondolas.  Awaiting  his  return,  we 
wandered  over  the  church.  Yes,  incontestably,  Miss  Evans 
resembled  my  little  Vicenza  picture.  She  looked  a  little 
pale  with  the  heat  and  the  constant  nervous  tension  of 
sight-seeing;  but  she  pleased  me  now  as  effectually  as  she 
had  pleased  me  before.  There  was  an  even  deeper  sweetness 
in  the  freedom  and  breadth  of  her  utterance  and  carriage.  I 
felt  more  even  than  before  that  she  was  an  example  of 
woman  active,  not  of  woman  passive.  We  strolled  through 
the  great  Basilica  in  serious,  charmed  silence.  Miss  Evans 
told  me  that  she  had  been  there  much:  she  seemed  to  know 
it  well.  We  went  into  the  dark  Baptistery  and  sat  down  on 
a  bench  against  the  wall,  trying  to  discriminate  in  the 
vaulted  dimness  the  harsh  medieval  reliefs  behind  the  altar 
and  the  mosaic  Crucifixion  above  it. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "what  has  Venice  done  for  you?" 

"Many  things.  Tired  me  a  little,  saddened  me,  charmed 
me." 

"How  have  you  spent  your  time?" 

"As  people  spend  it.  After  breakfast  we  get  into  our 
gondola  and  remain  in  it  pretty  well  till  bedtime.  I  be- 
lieve I  know  every  canal,  every  canaletto,  in  Venice.  You 
must  have  learned  already  how  sweet  it  is  to  lean  back! 
under  the  awning  to  feel  beneath  you  that  steady,  liquid 
lapse,  to  look  out  at  all  this  bright,  sad  elegance  of  ruin.  I 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  23 

have  been  reading  two  or  three  of  George  Sand's  novels.  Do 
you  know  La  Derniere  Aldini?  I  fancy  a  romance  in  every 
palace." 

"The  reality  of  Venice  seems  to  me  to  exceed  all  romance. 
It's  romance  enough  simply  to  be  here." 

"Yes;  but  how  brief  and  transient  a  romance!" 

"Well,"  said  I,  "we  shall  certainly  cease  to  be  here,  but 
we  shall  never  cease  to  have  been  here.  You  are  not  to 
leave  directly,  I  hope." 

"In  the  course  of  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  we  go  to  Flor- 
ence." 

"And  then  to  Rome?" 

"To  Rome  and  Naples,  and  then  by  sea,  probably,  to 
Genoa,  and  thence  to  Nice  and  Paris.  We  must  be  at 
home  by  the  new  year.  And  you?" 

"I  hope  to  spend  the  winter  in  Italy." 

"Are  you  never  coming  home  again?" 

"By  no  means.  I  shall  probably  return  in  the  spring. 
But  I  wish  you,  too,  were  going  to  remain." 

"You  are  very  good.  My  father  pronounces  it  impossible. 
I  have  only  to  make  the  most  of  it  while  I'm  here." 

"Are  you  going  back  to  Araminta?" 

Miss  Evans  was  silent  a  moment.  "0,  don't  ask!"  she 
said. 

"What  kind  of  a  place  is  Araminta?"  I  asked,  maliciously. 

Again  she  was  silent.  "That  is  John  the  Baptist  on  the 
cover  of  the  basin,"  she  said,  at  last,  rising  to  her  feet,  with 
a  light  laugh. 

On  emerging  from  the  Baptistery  we  found  Mr.  Evans, 
who  greeted  me  cordially  and  insisted  on  my  coming  to 
dine  with  them.  I  think  most  fondly  of  our  little  dinner. 
We  went  to  the  Caffe  Quadri  and  occupied  a  table  beside 
an  open  window,  looking  out  into  the  Piazza,  which  was  be- 
ginning to  fill  with  evening  loungers  and  listeners  to  the 
great  band  of  music  in  the  centre.  Miss  Evans  took  off  her 
hat  and  sat  facing  me  in  friendly  silence.  Her  father  sus- 
tained the  larger  burden  of  conversation.  He  seemed  to 
feel  its  weight,  however,  as  the  dinner  proceeded  and  when 
he  had  attacked  his  second  bottle  of  wine.  Miss  Evans 


24  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

then  questioned  me  about  my  journey  from  Milan.  I  told 
her  the  whole  story,  and  felt  that  I  infused  into  it  a  great 
deal  of  color  and  heat.  She  sat  charming  me  forward  with 
her  steady,  listening  smile.  For  the  first  time  in  my  Hie 
I  felt  the  magic  of  sympathy.  After  dinner  we  went  down 
into  the  Piazza  and  established  ourselves  at  one  of  Florian's 
tables.  Night  had  become  perfect;  the  music  was  mag- 
nificent. At  a  neighboring  table  was  a  group  of  young  Ve- 
netian gentlemen,  splendid  in  dress,  after  the  manner  of 
their  kind,  and  glorious  with  the  wondrous  physical  glory 
of  the  Italian  race. 

"They  only  need  velvet  and  satin  and  plumes,"  I  said, 
"to  be  subjects  for  Titian  and  Paul  Veronese." 

They  sat  rolling  their  dark  eyes  and  kissing  their  white 
hands  at  passing  friends,  with  smiles  that  were  like  the 
moon-flashes  on  the  Adriatic. 

"They  are  beautiful  exceedingly,"  said  Miss  Evans;  "the 
most  beautiful  creatures  in  the  world,  except " 

"Except,  you  mean,  this  other  gentleman." 

She  assented.  The  person  of  whom  I  had  spoken  was  a 
young  man  who  was  just  preparing  to  seat  himself  at  a 
vacant  table.  A  lady  and  gentleman,  elderly  persons,  had 
passed  near  him  and  recognized  him,  and  he  had  uncov- 
ered himself  and  now  stood  smiling  and  talking.  They  were 
all  genuine  Anglo-Saxons.  The  young  man  was  rather 
short  of  stature,  but  firm  and  compact.  His  hair  was  light 
and  crisp,  his  eye  a  clear  blue,  his  face  and  neck  violently 
tanned  by  exposure  to  the  sun.  He  wore  a  pair  of  small 
blond  whiskers. 

"Do  you  call  him  beautiful?"  demanded  Mr.  Evans. 
"He  reminds  me  of  myself  when  I  was  his  age.  Indeed,  he 
looks  like  you,  sir." 

"He's  not  beautiful,"  said  Miss  Evans,  "but  he  is  hand- 
some." 

The  young  man's  face  was  full  of  decision  and  spirit; 
his  whole  figure  had  been  moulded  by  action,  tempered  by 
effort.  He  looked  simple  and  keen,  upright,  downright. 

"Is  he  English?"  asked  Miss  Evans,  "or  American?" 

"He  is  both,"  I  said,  "or  either.    He  is  made  of  that  pre- 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  25 

cious  clay  that  is  common  to  the  whole  English-speaking 
race." 

"He's  American." 

"Very  possibly,"  said  I;  and  indeed  we  never  learned.  I 
repeat  the  incident  because  I  think  it  has  a  certain  value  in 
my  recital.  Before  we  separated  I  expressed  the  hope  that 
we  might  meet  again  on  the  morrow. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  propose  it,"  said  Miss  Evans; 
"but  you'll  thank  us  for  refusing.  Take  my  advice,  as  for 
an  old  Venetian,  and  spend  the  coming  three  days  alone. 
How  can  you  enjoy  Tintoretto  and  Bellini,  when  you  are 
racking  your  brains  for  small  talk  for  me?" 

"With  you,  Miss  Evans,  I  shouldn't  talk  small.  But  you 
shape  my  programme  with  a  liberal  hand.  At  the  end  of 
three  days,  pray,  where  will  you  be?" 

They  would  still  be  in  Venice,  Mr.  Evans  declared.  It 
was  a  capital  hotel,  and  then  those  jolly  gondolas!  I  was 
unable  to  impeach  the  wisdom  of  the  young  girl's  proposi- 
tion. To  be  so  wise,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  to  be  extremely 
charming. 

For  three  days,  accordingly,  I  wandered  about  alone.  I 
often  thought  of  Miss  Evans  and  I  often  fancied  I  should 
enjoy  certain  great  pictures  none  the  less  for  that  deep  as- 
sociated contemplation  and  those  fine  emanations  of  assent 
and  dissent  which  I  should  have  known  in  her  society.  I 
wandered  far;  I  penetrated  deep,  it  seemed  to  me,  into  the 
heart  of  Venetian  power.  I  shook  myself  free  of  the  sad 
and  sordid  present,  and  embarked  on  that  silent  contempla- 
tive sea  whose  irresistible  tides  expire  at  the  base  of  the 
mighty  canvases  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco.  But  on  my 
return  to  the  hither  shore,  I  always  found  my  sweet  young 
countrywoman  waiting  to  receive  me.  If  Miss  Evans  had 
been  an  immense  coquette,  she  could  not  have  proceeded 
more  cunningly  than  by  this  injunction  of  a  three  days' 
absence.  During  this  period,  in  my  imagination,  she  in- 
creased tenfold  in  value.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  there 
were  not  hours  together  when  I  quite  forgot  her,  and  when 
I  had  no  heart  but  for  Venice  and  the  lessons  of  Venice, 
for  the  sea  and  sky  and  the  great  painters  and  builders. 


26  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

But  when  my  mind  had  executed  one  of  these  great  pas- 
sages of  appreciation,  it  turned  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
solitude  and  lassitude  to  those  gentle  hopes,  those  fragrant 
hints  of  intimacy,  which  clustered  about  the  person  of  my 
friend.  She  remained  modestly  uneclipsed  by  the  women  of 
Titian.  She  was  as  deeply  a  woman  as  they,  and  yet  so 
much  more  of  a  person;  as  fit  as  the  broadest  and  blond- 
est to  be  loved  for  herself,  yet  full  of  serene  superiority  as 
an  active  friend.  To  the  old,  old  sentiment  what  an  ex- 
quisite modern  turn  she  might  give!  I  so  far  overruled 
her  advice  as  that,  with  her  father,  we  made  a  trio  every 
evening,  after  the  day's  labors,  at  one  of  Florian's  tables. 
Mr.  Evans  drank  absinthe  and  discoursed  upon  the  glories 
of  our  common  country,  of  which  he  declared  it  was  high 
time  I  should  make  the  acquaintance.  He  was  not  the 
least  of  a  bore:  I  relished  him  vastly.  He  was  in  many 
ways  an  excellent  representative  American.  Without  taste, 
without  culture  or  polish,  he  nevertheless  produced  an  im- 
pression of  substance  in  character,  keenness  in  perception, 
and  intensity  in  will,  which  effectually  redeemed  him  from 
vulgarity.  It  often  seemed  to  me,  in  fact,  that  his  good- 
humored  tolerance  and  easy  morality,  his  rank  self-confi- 
dence, his  nervous  decision  and  vivacity,  his  fearlessness  of 
either  gods  or  men,  combined  in  proportions  of  which  the 
union  might  have  been  very  fairly  termed  aristocratic.  His 
voice,  I  admit,  was  of  the  nose,  nasal;  but  possibly,  in  the 
matter  of  utterance,  one  eccentricity  is  as  good  as  another. 
At  all  events,  with  his  clear,  cold  gray  eye,  with  that  just 
faintly  impudent,  more  than  level  poise  of  his  ample  chin, 
with  those  two  hard  lines  which  flanked  the  bristling  wings 
of  his  gray  moustache,  with  his  general  expression  of  un- 
challenged security  and  practical  aptitude  and  incurious 
scorn  of  tradition,  he  impressed  the  sensitive  beholder  as  a 
man  of  incontestable  force.  He  was  entertaining,  too,  partly 
by  wit  and  partly  by  position.  He  was  weak  only  in  his 
love  of  absinthe.  After  his  first  glass  he  left  his  chair  and 
strolled  about  the  piazza,  looking  for  possible  friends  and 
superbly  unconscious  of  possible  enemies.  His  daughter  sat 
back  in  her  chair,  her  arms  folded,  her  ungloved  hands 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  27 

sustaining  them,  her  prettiness  half  defined,  her  voice  en- 
hanced and  subdued  by  the  gas-tempered  starlight.  We  had 
infinite  talk.  Without  question,  she  had  an  admirable  femi- 
nine taste:  she  was  worthy  to  know  Venice.  I  remember 
telling  her  so  in  a  sudden  explosion  of  homage.  "You  are 
really  worthy  to  know  Venice,  Miss  Evans.  We  must  learn 
to  know  it  together.  Who  knows  what  hidden  treasures  we 
may  help  each  other  to  find?" 


n 

At  the  end  of  my  three  days'  probation,  I  spent  a  week 
constantly  with  my  friends.  Our  mornings  were,  of 
course,  devoted  to  churches  and  galleries,  and  in  the  late 
afternoon  we  passed  and  repassed  along  the  Grand  Canal 
or  betook  ourselves  to  the  Lido.  By  this  time  Miss  Evans 
and  I  had  become  thoroughly  intimate;  we  had  learned  to 
know  Venice  together,  and  the  knowledge  had  helped  us  to 
know  each  other.  In  my  own  mind,  Charlotte  Evans  and 
Venice  had  played  the  game  most  effectively  into  each 
other's  hands.  If  my  fancy  had  been  called  upon  to  paint 
her  portrait,  my  fancy  would  have  sketched  her  with  a  back- 
ground of  sunset-flushed  palace  wall,  with  a  faint  reflected 
light  from  the  green  lagoon  playing  up  into  her  face.  And 
if  I  had  wished  to  sketch  a  Venetian  scene,  I  should  have 
painted  it  from  an  open  window,  with  a  woman  leaning 
against  the  casement, — as  I  had  often  seen  her  lean  from  a 
window  in  her  hotel.  At  the  end  of  a  week  we  went  one 
afternoon  to  the  Lido,  timing  our  departure  so  as  to  allow  us 
to  return  at  sunset.  We  went  over  in  silence,  Mr.  Evans 
sitting  with  reverted  head,  blowing  his  cigar-smoke  against 
the  dazzling  sky,  which  told  so  fiercely  of  sea  and  summer; 
his  daughter  motionless  and  thickly  veiled;  I  facing  them, 
feeling  the  broken  swerve  of  our  gondola,  and  watching  Ven- 
ice grow  level  and  rosy  beyond  the  liquid  interval.  .Near 
the  landing-place  on  the  hither  side  of  the  Lido  is  a  small 
trattoria  for  the  refreshment  of  visitors.  An  arbor  outside 
the  door,  a  horizontal  vine  checkering  still  further  a  dirty 


28  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

table-cloth,  a  pungent  odor  of  jrittata,  an  admiring  circle  of 
gondoliers  and  beggars,  are  the  chief  attractions  of  this 
suburban  house  of  entertainment, — attractions  sufficient, 
however,  to  have  arrested  the  inquisitive  steps  of  an  elderly 
American  gentleman,  in  whom  Mr.  Evans  speedily  recog- 
nized a  friend  of  early  years,  a  comrade  in  affairs.  A  hearty 
greeting  ensued.  This  worthy  man  had  ordered  dinner:  he 
besought  Mr.  Evans  at  least  to  sit  down  and  partake  of  a 
bottle  of  wine.  My  friend  vacillated  between  his  duties  as 
a  father  and  the  prospect  of  a  rich  old-boyish  revival  of  the 
delectable  interests  of  home ;  but  his  daughter  graciously 
came  to  his  assistance.  "Sit  down  with  Mr.  Munson,  talk 
till  you  are  tired,  and  then  walk  over  to  the  beach  and  find 
us.  We  shall  not  wander  beyond  call." 

She  and  I  accordingly  started  slowly  for  a  stroll  along 
the  barren  strand  which  averts  its  shining  side  from  Venice 
and  takes  the  tides  of  the  Adriatic.  The  Lido  has  for  me 
a  peculiar  melancholy  charm,  and  I  have  often  wondered 
that  I  should  have  felt  the  presence  of  beauty  in  a  spot  so 
destitute  of  any  exceptional  elements  of  beauty.  For  beyond 
the  fact  that  it  knows  the  changing  moods  and  hues  of  the 
Adriatic,  this  narrow  strip  of  sand-stifled  verdure  has  no 
very  rare  distinction.  In  my  own  country  I  know  many  a 
sandy  beach,  and  many  a  stunted  copse,  and  many  a  tremu- 
lous ocean  line  of  little  less  purity  and  breadth  of  compo- 
sition, with  far  less  magical  interest.  The  secret  of  the 
Lido  is  simply  your  sense  of  adjacent  Venice.  It  is  the 
salt-sown  garden  of  the  city  of  the  sea.  Hither  came 
short-paced  Venetians  for  a  meagre  taste  of  terra  firma,  or 
for  a  wider  glimpse  of  their  parent  ocean.  Along  a  narrow 
line  in  the  middle  of  the  island  are  market-gardens  and 
breeze-twisted  orchards,  and  a  hint  of  hedges  and  lanes  and 
inland  greenery.  At  one  end  is  a  series  of  low  fortifications 
duly  embanked  and  moated  and  sentinelled.  Still  beyond 
these,  half  over-drifted  with  sand  and  over-clambered  with 
rank  grasses  and  coarse  thick  shrubbery,  are  certain  quaintly 
lettered  funereal  slabs,  tombs  of  former  Jews  of  Venice.  To- 
ward these  we  slowly  wandered  and  sat  down  in  the  grass. 
Between  the  sand-heaps,  which  shut  out  the  beach,  we  saw 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  29 

in  a  dozen  places  the  blue  agitation  of  the  sea.  Over  all 
the  scene  there  brooded  the  deep  bright  sadness  of  early 
autumn.  I  lay  at  my  companion's  feet  and  wondered 
whether  I  was  in  love.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never 
been  so  happy  in  my  life.  They  say,  I  know,  that  to  be  in 
love  is  not  pure  happiness;  that  in  the  mood  of  the  uncon- 
fessed,  unaccepted  lover  there  is  an  element  of  poignant 
doubt  and  pain.  Should  I  at  once  confess  myself  and  taste 
of  the  perfection  of  bliss?  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  cared 
very  little  for  the  meaning  of  her  reply.  I  only  wanted  to 
talk  of  love;  I  wanted  in  some  manner  to  enjoy  in  that  at- 
mosphere of  romance  the  woman  who  was  so  blessedly  fair 
and  wise.  It  seemed  to  me  that  all  the  agitation  of  fancy, 
the  excited  sense  of  beauty,  the  fervor  and  joy  and  sadness 
begotten  by  my  Italian  wanderings,  had  suddenly  resolved 
themselves  into  a  potent  demand  for  expression.  Miss 
Evans  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  Hebrew  tombs,  her  chin  on 
her  hand,  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  watching  the  broken 
horizon.  I  was  stretched  on  the  grass  on  my  side,  leaning 
on  my  elbow  and  on  my  hand,  with  my  eyes  on  her  face. 
She  bent  her  own  eyes  and  encountered  mine;  we  neither 
of  us  spoke  or  moved,  but  exchanged  a  long  steady  regard; 
after  which  her  eyes  returned  to  the  distance.  What  was  her 
feeling  toward  me?  Had  she  any  sense  of  my  emotion  or 
of  any  answering  trouble  in  her  own  wonderful  heart? 
Suppose  she  should  deny  me:  should  I  suffer,  would  I 
persist?  At  any  rate,  I  should  have  struck  a  blow  for  love. 
Suppose  she  were  to  accept  me;  would  my  joy  be  any 
greater  than  in  the  mere  translation  of  my  heart-beats?  Did 
I  in  truth  long  merely  for  a  bliss  which  should  be  of  that 
hour  and  that  hour  alone?  I  ws.s  conscious  of  an  immense 
respect  for  the  woman  beside  me.  I  was  unconscious  of 
the  least  desire  even  to  touch  the  hem  of  her  garment  as  it 
lay  on  the  grass,  touching  my  own.  After  all,  it  was  but 
ten  days  that  I  had  known  her.  How  little  I  really  knew  of 
her!  how  little  else  than  her  beauty  and  her  wit!  How 
little  she  knew  of  me,  of  my  vast  outlying,  unsentimental, 
spiritual  self!  We  knew  hardly  more  of  each  other  than 
had  appeared  in  this  narrow  circle  of  our  common  impres- 


30  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

sions  of  Venice.  And  yet  if  into  such  a  circle  Love  had 
forced  his  way,  let  him  take  his  way!  Let  him  widen  the 
circle!  Transcendent  Venice!  I  rose  to  my  feet  with  a 
violent  movement,  and  walked  ten  steps  away.  I  came  back 
and  flung  myself  again  on  the  grass. 

"The  other  day  at  Vicenza,"  I  said,  "I  bought  a  picture." 

"Ah?"   An  'original'?" 

"No,  a  copy." 

"From  whom?" 

"From  you!" 

She  blushed.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"It  was  a  little  pretended  Correggio;  a  Madonna  and 
Child." 

"Is  it  good?" 

"No,  it's  rather  poor." 

"Why,  then,  did  you  buy  it?" 

"Because  the  Madonna  looked  singularly  like  you." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Brooke,  you  hadn't  a  better  reason.  I 
hope  the  picture  was  cheap." 

"It  was  quite  reason  enough.  I  admire  you  more  than 
any  woman  in  the  world." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment,  blushing  again.  "You  don't 
know  me." 

"I  have  a  suspicion  of  you.  It's  ground  enough  for  ad- 
miration." 

"O,  don't  talk  about  admiration.  I'm  tired  of  it  all  be- 
forehand." 

"Well,  then,"  said  I,  "I'm  in  love." 

"Not  with  me,  I  hope." 

"With  you,  of  course.    With  whom  else?" 

"Has  it  only  just  now  occurred  to  you?" 

"It  has  just  occurred  to  me  to  say  it." 

Her  blush  had  deepened  a  little;  but  a  genuine  smile 
came  to  its  relief.  "Poor  Mr.  Brooke!"  she  said. 

"Poor  Mr.  Brooke  indeed,  if  you  take  it  in  that  way." 

"You  must  forgive  me  if  I  doubt  of  your  love." 

"Why  should  you  doubt?" 

"Love,  I  fancy,  doesn't  come  in  just  this  way." 

"It  comes  as  it  can.    This  is  surely  a  very  good  way." 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  31 

"I  know  it's  a  very  pretty  way,  Mr.  Brooke;  Venice  be- 
hind us,  the  Adriatic  before  us,  these  old  Hebrew  tombs! 
Its  very  prettiness  makes  me  distrust  it." 

"Do  you  believe  only  in  the  love  that  is  born  in  darkness 
and  pain?  Poor  love!  it  has  trouble  enough,  first  and  last. 
Allow  it  a  little  ease." 

"Listen,"  said  Miss  Evans,  after  a  pause.  "It's  not  with 
me  you're  in  love,  but  with  that  painted  picture.  All  this 
Italian  beauty  and  delight  has  thrown  you  into  a  romantic 
state  of  mind.  You  wish  to  make  it  perfect.  I  happen  to 
be  at  hand,  so  you  say,  'Go  to,  I'll  fall  in  love.'  And  you 
fancy  me,  for  the  purpose,  a  dozen  fine  things  that  I'm  not." 

"I  fancy  you  beautiful  and  good.  I'm  sorry  to  find  you 
so  dogmatic." 

"You  mustn't  abuse  me,  or  we  shall  be  getting  serious." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "you  can't  prevent  me  from  adoring  you." 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to.  So  long  as  you  'adore'  me, 
we're  safe!  I  can  tell  you  better  things  than  that  I'm  in 
love  with  you." 

I  looked  at  her  impatiently.    "For  instance?" 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "I  like  you  immensely.  As  for 
love,  I'm  in  love  with  Venice." 

"Well,  I  like  Venice  immensely,  but  I'm  in  love  with 
you." 

"In  that  way  I  am  willing  to  leave  it.  Pray  don't  speak 
of  it  again  to-day.  But  my  poor  father  is  probably  wander- 
ing up  to  his  knees  in  the  sand." 

I  had  been  happy  before,  but  I  think  I  was  still  happier 
for  the  words  I  had  spoken.  I  had  cast  them  abroad  at  all 
events;  my  heart  was  richer  by  a  sense  of  their  possible 
fruition.  We  walked  far  along  the  beach.  Mr.  Evans  was 
still  with  his  friend. 

"What  is  beyond  that  horizon?"  said  my  companion. 

"Greece,  among  other  things." 

"Greece!  only  think  of  it!    Shall  you  never  go  there?" 

I  stopped  short.  "If  you  will  believe  what  I  say,  Miss 
Evans,  we  may  both  go  there."  But  for  all  answer  she 
repeated  her  request  that  I  should  forbear.  Before  long, 
retracing  our  steps,  we  met  Mr.  Evans,  who  had  parted  with 


32  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

his  friend,  the  latter  having  returned  to  Venice.  He  had 
arranged  to  start  the  next  morning  for  Milan.  We  went 
back  over  the  lagoon  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset,  in  a  golden 
silence  which  suffered  us  to  hear  the  far-off  ripple  in  the 
wake  of  other  gondolas,  a  golden  clearness  so  perfect  that 
the  rosy  flush  on  the  marble  palaces  seemed  as  light  and 
pure  as  the  life-blood  on  the  forehead  of  a  sleeping  child. 
There  is  no  Venice  like  the  Venice  of  that  magical  hour. 
For  that  brief  period  her  ancient  glory  returns.  The  sky 
arches  over  her  like  a  vast  imperial  canopy  crowded  with  its 
clustering  mysteries  of  light.  Her  whole  aspect  is  one  of 
unspotted  splendor.  No  other  city  takes  the  crimson  evan- 
escence of  day  with  such  magnificent  effect.  The  lagoon  is 
sheeted  with  a  carpet  of  fire.  All  torpid,  pallid  hues  of 
marble  are  transmuted  to  a  golden  glow.  The  dead  Vene- 
tian tone  brightens  and  quickens  into  life  and  lustre,  and 
the  spectator's  enchanted  vision  seems  to  rest  on  an  em- 
bodied dream  of  the  great  painter  who  wrought  his  immortal 
reveries  into  the  ceilings  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

It  was  not  till  the  second  day  after  this  that  I  again  saw 
Miss  Evans.  I  went  to  the  little  church  of  San  Cas- 
siano,  to  see  a  famous  Tintoretto,  to  which  I  had  already 
made  several  vain  attempts  to  obtain  access.  At  the  door  in 
the  little  bustling  campo  which  adjoins  the  church  I  found 
her  standing  expectant.  A  little  boy,  she  told  me,  had  gone 
for  the  sacristan  and  his  key.  Her  father,  she  proceeded  to 
explain,  had  suddenly  been  summoned  to  Milan  by  a  tele- 
gram from  Mr.  Munson,  the  friend  whom  he  had  met  at  the 
Lido,  who  had  suddenly  been  taken  ill. 

"And  so  you're  going  about  alone?  Do  you  think  that's 
altogether  proper?  Why  didn't  you  send  for  me?"  I  stood 
lost  in  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  exquisite  dignity  of 
her  self-support.  I  had  heard  of  American  girls  doing  such 
things;  but  I  had  yet  to  see  them  done. 

"Do  you  think  it  less  proper  for  me  to  go  about  alone 
than  to  send  for  you?  Venice  has  seen  so  many  worse  im- 
proprieties that  she'll  forgive  me  mine." 

The  little  boy  arrived  with  the  sacristan  and  his  key,  and 
we  were  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Tintoretto's  Cruci- 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  33 

fixion.  This  great  picture  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
Venetian  school.  Tintoretto,  the  travelled  reader  will  re- 
member, has  painted  two  masterpieces  on  this  tremendous 
theme.  The  larger  and  more  complex  work  is  at  the  Scuo- 
la  di  San  Rocco;  the  one  of  which  I  speak  is  small,  simple, 
and  sublime.  It  occupies  the  left  side  of  the  narrow  choir 
of  the  shabby  little  church  which  we  had  entered,  and  is 
remarkable  as  being,  with  two  or  three  exceptions,  the  best 
preserved  work  of  its  incomparable  author.  Never,  in  the 
whole  range  of  art,  I  imagine,  has  so  powerful  an  effect  been 
produced  by  means  so  simple  and  select;  never  has  the  in- 
telligent choice  of  means  to  an  effect  been  pursued  with  such 
a  refinement  of  perception.  The  picture  offers  to  our  sight 
the  very  central  essence  of  the  great  tragedy  which  it  de- 
picts. There  is  no  swooning  Madonna,  no  consoling  Mag- 
dalen, no  mockery  of  contrast,  no  cruelty  of  an  assembled 
host.  We  behold  the  silent  summit  of  Calvary.  To  the 
right  are  the  three  crosses,  that  of  the  Saviour  foremost.  A 
ladder  pitched  against  it  supports  a  turbaned  executioner, 
who  bends  downward  to  receive  the  sponge  offered  him  by 
a  comrade.  Above  the  crest  of  the  hill  the  helmets  and 
spears  of  a  line  of  soldiery  complete  the  grimness  of  the 
scene.  The  reality  of  the  picture  is  beyond  all  words;  it 
is  hard  to  say  which  is  more  impressive,  the  naked  horror 
of  the  fact  represented,  or  the  sensible  power  of  the  artist. 
You  breathe  a  silent  prayer  of  thanks  that  you,  for  your 
part,  are  without  the  terrible  clairvoyance  of  genius.  We 
sat  and  looked  at  the  picture  in  silence.  The  sacristan 
loitered  about;  but  finally,  weary  of  waiting,  he  retired  to 
the  campo  without.  I  observed  my  companion:  pale,  mo- 
tionless, oppressed,  she  evidently  felt  with  poignant  sym- 
pathy the  commanding  force  of  the  work.  At  last  I  spoke 
to  her;  receiving  no  answer,  I  repeated  my  question.  She 
rose  to  her  feet  and  turned  her  face  upon  me,  illumined 
with  a  vivid  ecstasy  of  pity.  Then  passing  me  rapidly,  she 
descended  into  the  aisle  of  the  church,  dropped  into  a  chair, 
and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  burst  into  an  agony  of 
sobs.  Having  allowed  time  for  her  feeling  to  expend  itself, 
I  went  to  her  and  recommended  her  not  to  let  the  day  close 


34  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

on  this  painful  emotion.  "Come  with  me  to  the  Ducal 
Palace,"  I  said;  "let  us  look  at  the  Rape  of  Europa."  But 
before  departing  we  went  back  to  our  Tintoretto,  and  gave 
it  another  solemn  half-hour.  Miss  Evans  repeated  aloud 
a  dozen  verses  from  St.  Mark's  Gospel. 

"What  is  it  here,"  I  asked,  "that  has  moved  you  most, 
the  painter  or  the  subject?" 

"I  suppose  it's  the  subject.    And  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  the  painter." 

We  went  to  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  immediately  made  our 
way  to  that  transcendent  shrine  of  light  and  grace,  the 
room  which  contains  the  masterpiece  of  Paul  Veronese,  and 
the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  of  his  solemn  comrade.  I  steeped 
myself  with  unprotesting  joy  in  the  gorgeous  glow  and  salu- 
brity of  that  radiant  scene,  wherein,  against  her  bosky 
screen  of  immortal  verdure,  the  rosy-footed,  pearl-circled, 
nymph-flattered  victim  of  a  divine  delusion  rustles  her  lus- 
trous satin  against  the  ambrosial  hide  of  bovine  Jove.  "It 
makes  one  think  more  agreeably  of  life,"  I  said  to  my  friend, 
"that  such  visions  have  blessed  the  eyes  of  men  of  mortal 
mould.  What  has  been  may  be  again.  We  may  yet  dream 
as  brightly,  and  some  few  of  us  translate  our  dreams  as 
freely." 

"This,  I  think,  is  the  brighter  dream  of  the  two,"  she  an- 
swered, indicating  the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  Miss  Evans, 
on  the  whole,  was  perhaps  right.  In  Tintoretto's  picture 
there  is  no  shimmer  of  drapery,  no  splendor  of  flowers  and 
gems;  nothing  but  the  broad,  bright  glory  of  deep-toned  sea 
and  sky,  and  the  shining  purity  and  symmetry  of  deified 
human  flesh.  "What  do  you  think,"  asked  my  companion, 
"of  the  painter  of  that  tragedy  at  San  Cassiano  being  also 
the  painter  of  this  dazzling  idyl;  of  the  great  painter  of 
darkness  being  also  the  great  painter  of  light?" 

"He  was  a  colorist!  Let  us  thank  the  great  man,  and  be 
colorists  too.  To  understand  this  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  we 
ought  to  spend  a  long  day  on  the  lagoon,  beyond  sight  of 
Venice.  Will  you  come  to-morrow  to  Torcello?"  The 
proposition  seemed  to  me  audacious;  I  was  conscious  of 
blushing  a  little  as  I  made  it.  Miss  Evans  looked  at  me 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  35 

and  pondered.  She  then  replied  with  great  calmness  that 
she  preferred  to  wait  for  her  father,  the  excursion  being 
one  that  he  would  probably  enjoy.  "Will  you  come,  then, — 
somewhere?"  I  asked. 

Again  she  pondered.  Suddenly  her  face  brightened.  "I 
should  very  much  like  to  go  to  Padua.  It  would  bore  my 
poor  father  to  go.  I  fancy  he  would  thank  you  for  taking 
me.  I  should  be  almost  willing,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  "to 
go  alone." 

It  was  easily  arranged  that  on  the  morrow  we  should  go 
for  the  day  to  Padua.  Miss  Evans  was  certainly  an  Ameri- 
can to  perfection.  Nothing  remained  for  me,  as  the  good 
American  which  I  aspired  to  be,  but  implicitly  to  respect 
her  confidence.  To  Padua,  by  an  early  train,  we  accord- 
ingly went.  The  day  stands  out  in  my  memory  delightfully 
curious  and  rich.  Padua  is  a  wonderful  little  city.  Miss 
Evans  was  an  excellent  walker,  and,  thanks  to  the  broad 
arcades  which  cover  the  footways  in  the  streets,  we  rambled 
for  hours  in  perpetual  shade.  We  spent  an  hour  at  the 
famous  church  of  St.  Anthony,  which  boasts  one  of  the 
richest  and  holiest  shrines  in  all  church-burdened  Italy. 
The  whole  edifice  is  nobly  and  darkly  ornate  and  pictu- 
resque, but  the  chapel  of  its  patron  saint — a  wondrous 
combination  of  chiselled  gold  and  silver  and  alabaster  and 
perpetual  flame — splendidly  outshines  and  outshadows  the 
rest.  In  all  Italy,  I  think,  the  idea  of  palpable,  material 
sanctity  is  nowhere  more  potently  enforced. 

"O  the  Church,  the  Church!"  murmured  Miss  Evans,  as 
we  stood  contemplating. 

"What  a  real  pity,"  I  said,  "that  we  are  not  Catholics; 
that  that  dazzling  monument  is  not  something  more  to  us 
than  a  mere  splendid  show!  What  a  different  thing  this 
visiting  of  churches  would  be  for  us,  if  we  occasionally  felt 
the  prompting  to  fall  on  our  knees.  I  begin  to  grow 
ashamed  of  this  perpetual  attitude  of  bald  curiosity.  What 
a  pleasant  thing  it  must  be,  in  such  a  church  as  this,  for 
two  good  friends  to  say  their  prayers  together!" 

"Ecco!"  said  Miss  Evans.  Two  persons  had  ap- 
proached the  glittering  shrine, — a  young  woman  of  the 


36  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

middle  class  and  a  man  of  her  own  rank,  some  ten  years 
older,  dressed  with  a  good  deal  of  cheap  elegance.  The 
woman  dropped  on  her  knees;  her  companion  fell  back  a 
few  steps,  and  stood  gazing  idly  at  the  chapel.  "Poor 
girl!"  said  my  friend,  "she  believes;  he  doubts." 

"He  doesn't  look  like  a  doubter.  He's  a  vulgar  fellow. 
They're  a  betrothed  pair,  I  imagine.  She  is  very  pretty." 
She  had  turned  round  and  flung  at  her  companion  a  liquid 
glance  of  entreaty.  He  appeared  not  to  observe  it;  but  in 
a  few  moments  he  slowly  approached  her,  and  bent  a  single 
knee  at  her  side.  When  presently  they  rose  to  their  feet, 
she  passed  her  arm  into  his  with  a  beautiful,  unsuppressed 
lovingness.  As  they  passed  us,  looking  at  us  from  the  clear 
darkness  of  their  Italian  brows,  I  keenly  envied  them. 
"They  are  better  off  than  we,"  I  said.  "Be  they  husband 
and  wife,  or  lovers,  or  simply  friends,  we,  I  think,  are 
rather  vulgar  beside  them." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Brooke,"  said  Miss  Evans,  "go  by  all 
means  and  say  your  prayers."  And  she  walked  away  to 
the  other  side  of  the  church.  Whether  I  obeyed  her  in- 
junction or  not,  I  feel  under  no  obligation  to  report.  I  re- 
joined her  at  the  beautiful  frescoed  chapel  in  the  opposite 
transept.  She  was  sitting  listlessly  turning  over  the  leaves 
cf  her  Murray.  "I  suppose,"  said  said,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, "that  nothing  is  more  vulgar  than  to  make  a  noise 
about  having  been  called  vulgar.  But  really,  Mr.  Brooke, 
don't  call  me  so  again.  I  have  been  of  late  so  fondly  fancy- 
ing I  am  not  vulgar." 

"My  dear  Miss  Evans,  you  are " 

"Come,  nothing  vulgar!" 

"You're  divine!" 

"A  la  bonne  heure!"  Divinities  needn't  pray.  They  are 
prayed  to." 

I  have  no  space  and  little  power  to  enumerate  and  de- 
scribe the  various  curiosities  of  Padua.  I  think  we  saw 
them  all.  We  left  the  best,  however,  for  the  last,  and  re- 
paired in  the  late  afternoon,  after  dining  fraternally  at  a 
restaurant,  to  the  Chapel  of  Giotto.  This  little  empty 
church,  standing  unshaded  and  forlorn  in  the  homely  mar- 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  37 

ket-garden  which  was  once  a  Roman  arena,  offers  one  of  the 
deepest  lessons  of  Italian  travel.  Its  four  walls  are  covered, 
almost  from  base  to  ceiling,  with  that  wonderful  series  of 
dramatic  paintings  which  usher  in  the  golden  prime  of 
Italian  art.  I  had  been  so  ill-informed  as  to  fancy  that  to 
talk  about  Giotto  was  to  make  more  or  less  of  a  fool  of 
one's  self,  and  that  he  was  the  especial  property  of  the  mere 
sentimentalists  of  criticism.  But  you  no  sooner  cross  the 
threshold  of  that  little  ruinous  temple — a  mere  empty  shell, 
but  coated  as  with  the  priceless  substance  of  fine  pearls  and 
vocal  with  a  murmured  eloquence  as  from  the  infinite  of 
art — than  you  perceive  with  whom  you  have  to  deal:  £ 
complete  painter  of  the  very  strongest  sort.  In  one  re- 
spect, assuredly,  Giotto  has  never  been  surpassed, — in  the 
art  of  presenting  a  story.  The  amount  of  dramatic  ex- 
pression compressed  into  those  quaint  little  scenic  squares 
would  equip  a  thousand  later  masters.  How,  beside  him, 
they  seem  to  fumble  and  grope  and  trifle!  And  he,  beside 
them,  how  direct  he  seems,  how  essential,  how  masculine! 
What  a  solid  simplicity,  what  an  immediate  purity  and 
grace!  The  exhibition  suggested  to  my  friend  and  me 
more  wise  reflections  than  we  had  the  skill  to  utter.  "Hap- 
py, happy  art,"  we  said,  as  we  seemed  to  see  it  beneath 
Giotto's  hand  tremble  and  thrill  and  sparkle,  almost,  with 
a  presentiment  of  its  immense  career,  "for  the  next  two 
hundred  years  what  a  glorious  felicity  will  be  yours!"  The 
chapel  door  stood  open  into  the  sunny  corn-field,  and  the 
lazy  litter  of  verdure  enclosed  by  the  crumbling  oval  of 
Roman  masonry.  A  loutish  ooy  who  had  come  with  the 
key  lounged  on  a  bench,  awaiting  tribute,  and  gazing  at 
us  as  we  gazed.  The  ample  light  flooded  the  inner  precinct, 
and  lay  hot  upon  the  coarse,  pale  surface  of  the  painted 
wall.  There  seemed  an  irresistible  pathos  in  such  a  combi- 
nation of  shabbiness  and  beauty.  I  thought  of  this  subse- 
quently at  the  beautiful  Museum  at  Bologna,  where  medi- 
ocrity is  so  richly  enshrined.  Nothing  that  we  had  yet 
seen  together  had  filled  us  with  so  deep  a  sense  of  enjoy- 
ment. We  stared,  we  laughed,  we  wept  almost,  we  raved 
with  a  decent  delight.  We  went  over  the  little  compart- 


38  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

ments  one  by  one:  we  lingered  and  returned  and  compared; 
we  studied;  we  melted  together  in  unanimous  homage.  At 
last  the  light  began  to  fade  and  the  little  saintly  figures  to 
grow  quaint  and  terrible  in  the  gathering  dusk.  The  loutish 
boy  had  transferred  himself  significantly  to  the  door-post: 
we  lingered  for  a  farewell  glance. 

"Mr.  Brooke,"  said  my  companion,  "we  ought  to  learn 
from  all  this  to  be  real;  real  even  as  Giotto  is  real;  to  dis- 
criminate between  genuine  and  factitious  sentiment;  be- 
tween the  substantial  and  the  trivial ;  between  the  essential 
and  the  superfluous;  sentiment  and  sentimentality." 

"You  speak,"  said  I,  "with  appalling  wisdom  and  truth. 
You  strike  a  chill  to  my  heart  of  hearts." 

She  spoke  unsmiling,  with  a  slightly  contracted  brow  and 
an  apparent  sense  of  effort.  She  blushed  as  I  gazed  at  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I'm  extremely  glad  to  have  been  here. 
Good,  wise  Giotto!  I  should  have  liked  to  know  you. — 
Nay,  let  me  pay  the  boy."  I  saw  the  piece  she  put  into  his 
hand ;  he  was  stupefied  by  its  magnitude. 

"We  shall  not  have  done  Padua,"  I  said,  as  we  left  the 
garden,  "unless  we  have  been  to  the  Caffe  Pedrocchi.  Come 
to  the  Caffe  Pedrocchi.  We  have  more  than  an  hour  before 
our  train, — time  to  eat  an  ice."  So  we  drove  to  the  Caffe 
Pedrocchi,  the  most  respectable  cafe  in  the  world;  a  cafe 
monumental,  scholastic,  classical. 

We  sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables  on  the  cheerful  external 
platform,  which  is  washed  by  the  gentle  tide  of  Paduan 
life.  When  we  had  finished  our  ices,  Miss  Evans  graciously 
allowed  me  a  cigar.  How  it  came  about  I  hardly  remember, 
but,  prompted  by  some  happy  accident  of  talk,  and  gently 
encouraged  perhaps  by  my  smoke-wreathed  quietude,  she 
lapsed,  with  an  exquisite  feminine  reserve,  into  a  delicate 
autobiographical  strain.  For  a  moment  she  became  ego- 
tistical; but  with  a  modesty,  a  dignity,  a  lightness  of  touch 
which  filled  my  eyes  with  admiring  tears.  She  spoke  of  her 
home,  her  family,  and  the  few  events  of  her  life.  She  had 
lost  her  mother  in  her  early  years;  her  two  sisters  had  mar- 
ried young;  she  and  her  father  were  equally  united  by  af- 
fection and  habit.  Upon  one  theme  she  touched,  in  regard 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  ^ 

to  which  I  should  be  at  loss  to  say  whether  her  treatment 
told  more,  by  its  frankness,  of  our  friendship,  or,  by  its 
reticence,  of  her  modesty.  She  spoke  of  having  been  en- 
gaged, and  of  having  lost  her  betrothed  in  the  Civil  War. 
She  made  no  story  of  it;  but  I  felt  from  her  words  that 
she  had  tasted  of  sorrow.  Having  finished  my  cigar,  I  was 
proceeding  to  light  another.  She  drew  out  her  watch.  Our 
train  was  to  leave  at  eight  o'clock.  It  was  now  a  quarter 
past.  There  was  no  later  evening  train. 

The  reader  will  understand  that  I  tell  the  simple  truth 
when  I  say  that  our  situation  was  most  disagreeable  and 
that  we  were  deeply  annoyed.  "Of  course,"  said  I,  "you 
are  utterly  disgusted." 

She  was  silent.  "I  am  extremely  sorry,"  she  said,  at  last, 
just  vanquishing  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"Murray  says  the  hotel  is  good,"  I  suggested. 

She  made  no  answer.  Then,  rising  to  her  feet,  "Let  us 
go  immediately,"  she  said.  We  drove  to  the  principal  inn 
and  bespoke  our  rooms.  Out  want  of  luggage  provoked,  of 
course,  a  certain  amount  of  visible  surprise.  This,  however, 
I  fancy,  was  speedily  merged  in  a  more  flattering  emotion, 
when  my  companion,  having  communed  with  the  chamber- 
maid, sent  her  forth  with  a  list  of  purchases. 

We  separated  early.  "I  hope,"  said  I,  as  I  bade  her  good 
night,  "that  you  will  be  fairly  comfortable." 

She  had  recovered  her  equanimity.  "I  have  no  doubt 
of  it." 

"Good  night." 

"Good  night."  Thank  God,  I  silently  added,  for  the 
dignity  of  American  women.  Knowing  to  what  suffering  a 
similar  accident  would  have  subjected  a  young  girl  of  the 
orthodox  European  training,  I  felt  devoutly  grateful  that 
among  my  own  people  a  woman  and  her  reputation  are 
more  indissolubly  one.  And  yet  I  was  unable  to  detach 
myself  from  my  Old-World  associations  effectually  enough 
not  to  wonder  whether,  after  all,  Miss  Evans's  calmness 
might  not  be  the  simple  calmness  of  despair.  The  miserable 
words  rose  to  my  lips,  "Is  she  Compromised?"  If  she  were, 


40  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

of  course,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  there  was  but  one  pos- 
sible sequel  to  our  situation. 

We  met  the  next  morning  at  breakfast.  She  assured  me 
that  she  had  slept,  but  I  doubted  it.  I  myself  had  not 
closed  my  eyes, — not  from  the  excitement  of  vanity.  Owing 
partly,  I  suppose,  to  a  natural  reaction  against  our  con- 
tinuous talk  on  the  foregoing  day,  our  return  to  Venice 
was  attended  with  a  good  deal  of  silence.  I  wondered 
whether  it  was  a  mere  fancy  that  Miss  Evans  was  pensive, 
appealing,  sombre.  As  we  entered  the  gondola  to  go  from 
the  railway  station  to  the  Hotel  Danieli,  she  asked  me  to 
request  the  gondoliers  to  pass  along  the  Canalezzo  rather 
than  through  the  short  cuts  of  the  smaller  canals. 
"I  feel  as  if  I  were  coming  home,"  she  said,  as  we 
floated  beneath  the  lovely  fagade  of  the  Ca'  Doro. 
Suddenly  she  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.  "It  seems  to 

me,"  she  said,  "that  I  should  like  to  stop  for  Mrs.  L ," 

and  she  mentioned  the  wife  of  the  American  Consul.  "I 
have  promised  to  show  her  some  jewelry.  This  is  a  particur 
larly  good  time.  I  shall  ask  her  to  come  home  with  me." 
We  stopped  accordingly  at  the  American  Consulate.  Here 
we  found,  on  inquiry,  to  my  great  regret,  that  the  Consul 
and  his  wife  had  gone  for  a  week  to  the  Lake  of  Como. 
For  a  moment  my  companion  meditated.  Then,  "To  the 
hotel,"  she  said  with  decision.  Our  arrival  attracted  ap- 
parently little  notice.  I  went  with  Miss  Evans  to  the  door 
of  her  father's  sitting-room,  where  we  met  a  servant,  who 
informed  us  with  inscrutable  gravity  that  Monsieur  had 
returned  the  evening  before,  but  that  he  had  gone  out  after 
breakfast  and  had  not  reappeared. 

"Poor  father,"  she  said.  "It  was  very  stupid  of  me  not 
to  have  left  a  note  for  him."  I  urged  that  our  absence  for 
the  night  was  not  to  have  been  foreseen,  and  that  Mr.  Evans 
had  in  all  likelihood,  very  plausibly  explained  it.  I  with- 
drew with  a  handshake  and  permission  to  return  in  the 
evening. 

I  went  to  my  hotel  and  slept,  a  long,  sound,  dreamless 
sleep.  In  the  afternoon  J  called  my  gondola,  and  went  over 
to  the  Lido.  I  crossed  to  the  outer  shore  and  sought  the 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  41 

spot  where  a  few  days  before  I  had  lain  at  the  feet  of 
Charlotte  Evans.  I  stretched  myself  on  the  grass  and 
fancied  her  present.  To  say  that  I  thought  would  be  to  say 
at  once  more  and  less  than  the  literal  truth.  I  was  in  a 
tremulous  glow  of  feeling.  I  listened  to  the  muffled  rupture 
of  the  tide,  vaguely  conscious  of  my  beating  heart.  Was  I 
or  was  I  not  in  love?  I  was  able  to  settle  nothing.  I 
wandered  musingly  further  and  further  from  the  point. 
Every  now  and  then,  with  a  deeper  pulsation  of  the  heart,  I 
would  return  to  it,  but  only  to  start  afresh  and  follow  some 
wire-drawn  thread  of  fancy  to  a  nebulous  goal  of  doubt , 
That  she  was  a  most  lovely  woman  seemed  to  me  of  all 
truths  the  truest,  but  it  was  a  hard-featured  fact  of  the 
sense  rather  than  a  radiant  mystery  of  faith.  I  felt 
that  I  was  not  possessed  by  a  passion;  perhaps  I  was  in- 
capable of  passion.  At  last,  weary  of  self-bewilderment,  I 
left  the  spot  and  wandered  beside  the  sea.  It  seemed  to 
speak  more  musingly  than  ever  of  the  rapture  of  motion  and 
freedom.  Byond  the  horizon  was  Greece,  beyond  and  below 
was  the  wondrous  Southern  world  which  blooms  about  the 
margin  of  the  Midland  Sea.  To  marry,  somehow,  meant  to 
abjure  all  this,  and  in  the  prime  of  youth  and  manhood  to 
sink  into  obscurity  and  care.  For  a  moment  there  stirred  in 
my  heart  a  feeling  of  anger  and  pain.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
I  was  in  love! 

I  went  straight  across  the  lagoon  to  the  Hotel  Danieli, 
and  as  I  approached  it  I  became  singularly  calm  and  col- 
lected. From  below  I  saw  Miss  Evans  alone  on  her  bal- 
cony, watching  the  sunset.  She  received  me  with  perfect 
friendly  composure.  Her  father  had  again  gone  out,  but  she 
had  told  him  of  my  coming,  and  he  was  soon  to  return.  He 
had  not  been  painfully  alarmed  at  her  absence,  having 
learned  through  a  chambermaid,  to  whom  she  had  happened 
to  mention  her  intention,  that  she  had  gone  for  the  day  to 
Padua. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  all  day?"  I  asked. 

"Writing  letters, — long,  tiresome,  descriptive  letters.  I 
have  also  found  a  volume  of  Hawthorne,  and  have  been 


42  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

reading  'Rappacini's  Daughter/  You  know  the  scene  is  laid 
in  Padua."  And  what  had  I  been  doing? 

Whether  I  was  in  a  passion  of  love  or  not,  I  was  enough 
in  love  to  be  very  illogical.  I  was  disappointed,  Heaven 
knows  why!  that  she  should  have  been  able  to  spend  her 
time  in  this  wholesome  fashion.  "I  have  heen  at  the  Lido, 
at  the  Hebrew  tombs,  where  we  sat  the  other  day,  thinking 
of  what  you  told  me  there. " 

"What  I  told  you?" 

"That  you  liked  me  immensely." 

She  smiled;  but  now  that  she  smiled,  I  fancied  I  saw  in 
the  movement  of  her  face  an  undercurrent  of  pain.  Had 
the  peace  of  her  heart  been  troubled?  "You  needn't  have 
gone  so  far  away  to  think  of  it." 

"It's  very  possible,"  I  said,  "that  I  shall  have  to  think  of 
it,  in  days  to  come,  farther  away  still." 

"Other  places,  Mr.  Brooke,  will  bring  other  thoughts." 

"Possibly.  This  place  has  brought  that  one."  At  what 
prompting  it  was  that  I  continued  I  hardly  know;  I  would 
tell  her  that  I  loved  her.  "I  value  it  beyond  all  other 
thoughts." 

"I  do  like  you,  Mr.  Brooke.    Let  it  rest  there." 

"It  may  rest  there  for  you.  It  can't  for  me.  It  begins 
there!  Don't  refuse  to  understand  me." 

She  was  silent.  Then,  bending  her  eyes  on  me,  "Per- 
haps," she  said,  "I  understand  you  too  well." 

"O,  in  Heaven's  name,  don't  play  at  coldness  and  scep- 
ticism!" 

She  dropped  her  eyes  gravely  on  a  bracelet  which  she 
locked  and  unlocked  on  her  wrist.  "I  think,"  she  said, 
without  raising  them,  "you  had  better  leave  Venice."  I  was 
about  to  reply,  but  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Evans  came 
in.  From  his  hard,  grizzled  brow  he  looked  at  us  in  turn; 
then,  greeting  me  with  an  extended  hand,  he  spoke  to  his 
daughter. 

"I  have  forgotten  my  cigar-case.  Be  so  good  as  to  fetch 
it  from  my  dressing-table." 

For  a  moment  Miss  Evans  hesitated  and  cast  upon  him 
a  faint  protesting  glance.  Then  she  lightly  left  the  room. 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  43 

He  stood  holding  my  hand,  with  a  very  sensible  firmness, 
with  his  eyes  on  mine.  Then,  laying  his  other  hand  heavily 
on  my  shoulder,  "Mr.  Brooke,"  he  said,  "I  believe  you  are 
an  honest  man." 

"I  hope  so,"  I  answered. 

He  paused,  and  I  felt  his  steady  gray  eyes.  "How  the 
devil/'  he  said,  "came  you  to  be  left  at  Padua?" 

"The  explanation  is  a  very  simple  one.  Your  daughter 
must  have  told  you." 

"I  have  thought  best  to  talk  very  little  to  my  daughter 
about  it." 

"Do  you  regard  it,  Mr.  Evans,"  I  asked,  "as  a  very 
serious  calamity?" 

"I  regard  it  as  an  infernally  disagreeable  thing.  It  seems 
that  the  whole  hotel  is  talking  about  it.  There  is  a  little 
beast  of  an  Italian  down  stairs " 

"Your  daughter,  I  think,  was  not  seriously  discomposed." 

"My  daughter  is  a  d — d  proud  woman!" 

"I  can  assure  you  that  my  esteem  for  her  is  quite  equal 
to  your  own." 

"What  does  that  mean,  Mr.  Brooke?"  I  was  about  to 
answer,  but  Miss  Evans  reappeared.  Her  father,  as  he  took 
his  cigar-case  from  her,  looked  at  her  intently,  as  if  he  were 
on  the  point  of  speaking,  but  the  words  remained  on  his 
lips,  and,  declaring  that  he  would  be  back  in  half  an  hour, 
he  left  the  room. 

His  departure  was  followed  by  a  long  silence. 

"Miss  Evans,"  I  said,  at  last,  "will  you  be  my  wife?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  certain  firm  resignation.  "Do 
you  feel  that,  Mr.  Brooke?  Do  you  know  what  you  ask?" 

"Most  assuredly." 

"Will  you  rest  content  with  my  answer?" 

"It  depends  on  what  your  answer  is." 

She  was  silent. 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  my  father  said  to  you  in 
my  absence." 

"You  had  better  learn  that  from  him." 

"I  think  I  know.    Poor  father!" 

"But  you  give  me  no  answer,"  I  rejoined,  after  a  pause. 


44  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

She  frowned  a  little.  "Mr.  Brooke,"  she  said,  "you  dis-, 
appoint  me." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry.  Don't  revenge  yourself  by  disappoint- 
ing me." 

"I  fancied  that  I  had  answered  your  proposal;  that  I 
had,  at  least,  anticipated  it,  the  other  day  at  the  Lido." 

"O,  that  was  very  good  for  the  other  day;  but  do  give  me 
something  different  now." 

"I  doubt  of  your  being  more  in  earnest  to-day  than  then." 

"It  seems  to  suit  you  wonderfully  well  to  doubt!" 

"I  thank  you  for  the  honor  of  your  proposal:  but  I  can't 
be  your  wife,  Mr.  Brooke." 

"That's  the  answer  with  which  you  ask  me  to  remain 
satisfied!" 

"Let  me  repeat  what  I  said  just  now.  You  had  better 
leave  Venice;  otherwise,  we  must  leave  it." 

"Ah,  that's  easy  to  say!" 

"You  mustn't  think  me  unkind  or  cynical.  You  have 
done  your  duty." 

"My  duty,— what  duty?" 

"Come,"  she  said,  with  a  beautiful  blush  and  the  least 
attempt  at  a  smile,  "you  imagine  that  I  have  suffered  an 
injury  by  my  being  left  with  you  at  Padua.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  such  injuries." 

"No  more  do  I." 

"Then  there  is  even  less  wisdom  than  before  in  your  pro- 
posal. But  I  strongly  suspect  that  if  we  had  not  missed 
the  train  at  Padua,  you  would  not  have  made  it.  There  is 
an  idea  of  reparation  in  it. — O  Sir!"  And  she  shook  her 
head  with  a  deepening  smile. 

"If  I  had  flattered  myself  that  it  lay  in  my  power  to 
do  you  an  injury,"  I  replied,  "I  should  now  be  rarely  dis- 
enchanted. As  little  almost  as  to  do  you  a  benefit!" 

"You  have  loaded  me  with  benefits.  I  thank  you  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  may  be  very  unreasonable,  but 
if  I  had  doubted  of  my  having  to  decline  your  offer  three 
days  ago,  I  should  have  quite  ceased  to  doubt  this  eve- 
ning." 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  45 

"You  are  an  excessively  proud  woman.  I  can  tell  you 
that." 

"Possibly.  But  I'm  not  as  proud  as  you  think.  I  believe 
in  my  common  sense." 

"I  wish  that  for  five  minutes  you  had  a  grain  of  imagi- 
nation!" 

"If  only  for  the  same  five  minutes  you  were  without  it. 
You  have  too  much,  Mr.  Brooke.  You  imagine  you  love 
me." 

"Poor  fool  that  I  am!" 

"You  imagine  that  I'm  charming.  I  assure  you  I'm  not 
in  the  least.  Here  in  Venice  I  have  not  been  myself  at 
all.  You  should  see  me  at  home." 

"Upon  my  word,  Miss  Evans,  you  remind  me  of  a  Ger- 
man philosopher.  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  seeing 
you  at  home." 

"Don't  fancy  that  I  think  lightly  of  your  offer.  But  we 
have  been  living,  Mr.  Brooke,  in  poetry.  Marriage  is 
stern  prose.  Do  let  me  bid  you  farewell!" 

I  took  up  my  hat.  "I  shall  go  from  here  to  Rome  and 
Naples/'  I  said.  "I  must  leave  Florence  for  the  last.  I 
shall  write  you  from  Rome  and  of  course  see  you  there." 

"I  hope  not.  I  had  rather  not  meet  you  again  in  Italy. 
It  perverts  our  dear  good  old  American  truth!" 

"Do  you  really  propose  to  bid  me  a  final  farewell?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment.    "When  do  you  return  home?" 

"Some  time  in  the  spring." 

"Very  well.  If  a  year  hence,  in  America,  you  are  still 
of  your  present  mind,  I  shall  not  decline  to  see  you.  I 
feel  very  safe!  If  you  are  not  of  your  present  mind, 
of  course  I  shall  be  still  more  happy.  Farewell."  She 
put  out  her  hand;  I  took  it. 

"Beautiful,  wonderful  woman!"  I  murmured. 

"That's  rank  poetry!     Farewell!" 

I  raised  her  hand  to  my  lips  and  released  it  in  silence. 
At  this  point  Mr.  Evans  reappeared,  considering  apparently 
that  his  half-hour  was  up.  "Are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     I  start  to-morrow  for  Rome." 

"The  deuce!     Daughter,  when  are  we  to  go?" 


46  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

She  moved  her  hand  over  her  forehead,  and  a  sort  of 
nervous  tremor  seemed  to  pass  through  her  limbs.  "O,  you 
must  take  me  home!"  she  said.  "I'm  horribly  home-sick!" 
She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  buried  her  head  on 
his  shoulder.  Mr.  Evans  with  a  movement  of  his  head  dis- 
missed me. 

At  the  top  of  the  staircase,  however,  he  overtook  me. 
"You  made  your  offer!"  And  he  passed  his  arm  into  mine. 

"Yes!"  ! 

"And  she  refused  you?"  I  nodded.  He  looked  at  me, 
squeezing  my  arm.  "By  Jove,  sir,  if  she  had  accepted " 

"Well!"  said  I,  stopping. 

"Why,  it  wouldn't  in  the  least  have  suited  me!  Not 
that  I  don't  esteem  you.  The  whole  house  shall  see  it." 
With  his  arm  in  mine  we  passed  down  stairs,  through  the 
hall,  to  the  landing-place,  where  he  called  his  own  gondola 
and  requested  me  to  use  it.  He  bade  me  farewell  with  a 
kindly  hand-shake,  and  the  assurance  that  I  was  too  "nice 
a  fellow  not  to  keep  as  a  friend." 

I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  my  uppermost  feeling  was  a 
sense  of  freedom  and  relief.  It  seemed  to  me  on  my 
journey  to  Florence  that  I  had  started  afresh,  and  was 
regarding  things  with  less  of  nervous  rapture  than  before, 
but  more  of  sober  insight.  Of  Miss  Evans  I  forbade  myself 
to  think.  In  my  deepest  heart  I  admitted  the  truth,  the 
partial  truth  at  least,  of  her  assertion  of  the  unreality  of  my 
love.  The  reality  I  believed  would  come.  The  way  to. 
hasten  its  approach  was,  meanwhile,  to  study,  to  watch, 
to  observe, — doubtless  even  to  enjoy.  I  certainly  enjoyed 
Florence  and  the  three  days  I  spent  there.  But  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  deal  with  Florence  in  a  parenthesis.  I  subse- 
quently saw  that  divine  little  city  under  circumstances 
which  peculiarly  colored  and  shaped  it.  In  Rome,  to 
begin  with,  I  spent  a  week  and  went  down  to  Naples,  drag- 
ging the  heavy  Roman  chain  which  she  rivets  about  your 
limbs  forever.  In  Naples  I  discovered  the  real  South — 
the  Southern  South, — in  art,  in  nature,  in  man,  and  the 
least  bit  in  woman.  A  German  lady,  an  old  kind  friend, 
had  given  me  a  letter  to  a  Neapolitan  lady  whom  she 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  47 

assured  me  she  held  in  high  esteem.    The  Signora  B 

was  at  Sorrento,  where  I  presented  my  letter.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  "esteem"  was  not  exactly  the  word;  but  the 

Signora  B was  charming.    She  assured  me  on  my  first 

visit  that  she  was  a  "true  Neapolitan,"  and  I  think,  on  the 
whole,  she  was  right.  She  told  me  that  I  was  a  true  Ger- 
man, but  in  this  she  was  altogether  wrong.  I  spent  four 
days  in  her  house;  on  one  of  them  we  went  to  Capri,  where 
the  Signora  had  an  infant — her  only  one — at  nurse.  We 
saw  the  Blue  Grotto,  the  Tiberian  ruins,  the  tarantella 
and  the  infant,  and  returned  late  in  the  evening  by  moon- 
light. The  Signora  sang  on  the  water  in  a  magnificent 
contralto.  As  I  looked  upward  at  Northern  Italy,  it  seemed, 
in  contrast,  a  cold,  dark  hyperborean  clime,  a  land  of  order, 
conscience,  and  virtue.  How  my  heart  went  out  to  that 
brave,  rich,  compact  little  Verona!  How  there  Nature 
seemed  to  have  mixed  her  colors  with  potent  oil,  instead  of 
as  here  with  crystalline  water,  drawn  though  it  was  from 
the  Neapolitan  Bay!  But  in  Naples,  too,  I  pursued  my 
plan  of  vigilance  and  study.  I  spent  long  mornings  at  the 
Museum  and  learned  to  know  Pompeii!  I  wrote  once  to 
Miss  Evans,  about  the  statues  in  the  Museum,  without  a 
word  of  wooing,  but  received  no  answer.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  returned  to  Rome  a  wiser  man.  It  was  the  middle 
of  October  when  I  reached  it.  Unless  Mr.  Evans  had 
altered  his  programme,  he  would  at  this  moment  be  passing 
down  to  Naples. 

A  fortnight  elapsed  without  my  hearing  of  him,  during 
which  I  was  in  the  full  fever  of  initiation  into  Roman 
wonders.  I  had  been  introduced  to  an  old  German  arch- 
aeologist, with  whom  I  spent  a  series  of  memorable  days  in 
the  exploration  of  ruins  and  the  study  of  the  classical  topog- 
raphy. I  thought,  I  lived,  I  ate  and  drank,  in  Latin,  and 
German  Latin  at  that.  But  I  remember  with  especial  de- 
light certain  long  lonely  rides  on  the  Campagna.  The 
weather  was  perfect.  Nature  seemed  only  to  slumber,  ready 
to  wake  far  on  the  hither  side  of  wintry  death.  From  time 
to  time,  after  a  passionate  gallop,  I  would  pull  up  my 
horse  on  the  slope  of  some  pregnant  mound  and  embrace 


48  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

with  the  ecstasy  of  quickened  senses  the  tragical  beauty  of 
the  scene;  strain  my  ear  to  the  soft  low  silence,  pity  the 
dark  dishonored  plain,  watch  the  heavens  come  rolling 
down  in  tides  of  light,  and  breaking  in  waves  of  fire  against 
the  massive  stillness  of  temples  and  tombs.  The  aspect 
of  all  this  sunny  solitude  and  haunted  vacancy  used  to  fill 
me  with  a  mingled  sense  of  exaltation  and  dread.  There 
were  moments  when  my  fancy  swept  that  vast  funereal 
desert  with  passionate  curiosity  and  desire,  moments  when 
it  felt  only  its  potent  sweetness  and  its  high  historic  charm. 
But  there  were  other  times  when  the  air  seemed  so  heavy 
with  the  exhalation  of  unburied  death,  so  bright  with 
sheeted  ghosts,  that  I  turned  short  about  and  galloped 
back  to  the  city.  One  afternoon  after  I  had  indulged  in 
one  of  these  supersensitive  flights  on  the  Campagna,  I 
betook  myself  to  St.  Peter's.  It  was  shortly  before  the 
opening  of  the  recent  Council,  and  the  city  was  filled  with 
foreign  ecclesiastics,  the  increase  being  of  course  especially 
noticeable  in  the  churches.  At  St.  Peter's  they  were  present 
in  vast  numbers;  great  armies  encamped  in  prayer  on  the 
marble  plains  of  its  pavement:  an  inexhaustible  physiog- 
nomical study.  Scattered  among  them  were  squads  of  little 
tonsured  neophytes,  clad  in  scarlet,  marching  and  counter- 
marching, and  ducking  and  flapping,  like  poor  little  raw 
recruits  for  the  heavenly  host.  I  had  never  before,  I  think, 
received  an  equal  impression  of  the  greatness  of  this  churcK 
of  churches,  or,  standing  beneath  the  dome,  beheld  such  a 
vision  of  erected  altitude, — of  the  builded  sublime.  I 
lingered  awhile  near  the  brazen  image  of  St.  Peter,  observ- 
ing the  steady  procession  of  his  devotees.  Near  me  stood 
a  lady  in  mourning,  watching  with  a  weary  droop  of  the 
head  the  grotesque  deposition  of  kisses.  A  peasant-woman 
advanced  with  the  file  of  the  faithful  and  lifted  up  her 
little  girl  to  the  well-worn  toe.  With  a  sudden  movement  of 
impatience  the  lady  turned  away,  so  that  I  saw  her  face  to 
face.  She  was  strikingly  pale,  but  as  her  eyes  met  mine  the 
blood  rushed  into  her  cheeks.  This  lonely  mourner  was 
Miss  Evans.  I  advanced  to  her  with  an  outstretched  hand. 
Before  she  spoke  I  had  guessed  at  the  truth. 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  49 

"You're  in  sorrow  and  trouble!" 
She  nodded,  with  a  look  of  simple  gravity. 
"Why  in  the  world  haven't  you  written  to  me?" 
"There  was  no  use.    I  seem  to  have  sufficed  to  myself." 
"Indeed,  you  have  not  sufficed  to  yourself.     You  are 
pale  and  worn;  you  looked  wretchedly."    She  stood  silent, 
looking  about  her  with  an  air  of  vague  unrest.    "I  have  as 
yet  heard  nothing,"  I  said.    "Can  you  speak  of  it?" 

"O  Mr.  Brooke!"  she  said  with  a  simple  sadness  that 
went  to  my  heart.  I  drew  her  hand  through  my  arm  and 
led  her  to  the  extremity  of  the  left  transept  of  the  church. 
We  sat  down  together,  and  she  told  me  of  her  father's 
death.  It  had  happened  ten  days  before,  in  consequence  of 
a  severe  apoplectic  stroke.  He  had  been  ill  but  a  single 
day,  and  had  remained  unconscious  from  first  to  last.  The 
American  physician  had  been  extremely  kind,  and  had 
relieved  her  of  all  care  and  responsibility.  His  wife  had 
strongly  urged  her  to  come  and  stay  in  their  house,  until 
she  should  have  determined  what  to  do;  but  she  had  pre- 
ferred to  remain  at  her  hotel.  She  had  immediately  fur- 
nished herself  with  an  attendant  in  the  person  of  a  French 
maid,  who  had  come  with  her  to  the  church  and  was  now 
at  confession.  At  first  she  had  wished  greatly  to  leave 
Rome,  but  now  that  the  first  shock  of  grief  had  passed 
away  she  found  it  suited  her  mood  to  linger  on  from  day 
to  day.  "On  the  whole,"  she  said,  with  a  sober  smile, 
"I  have  got  through  it  all  rather  easily  than  otherwise.  The 
common  cares  and  necessities  of  life  operate  strongly  to  in- 
terrupt and  dissipate  one's  grief.  I  shall  feel  my  loss  more 
when  I  get  home  again."  Looking  at  her  while  she  talked, 
I  found  a  pitiful  difference  between  her  words  and  her 
aspect.  Her  pale  face,  her  wilful  smile,  her  spiritless  ges- 
tures, spoke  most  forcibly  of  loneliness  and  weakness.  Over 
this  gentle  weakness  and  dependence  I  secretly  rejoiced;  I 
felt  in  my  heart  an  immense  uprising  of  pity, — of  the  pity 
that  goes  hand  in  hand  with  love.  At  its  bidding  I  hastily, 
vaguely  sketched  a  magnificent  scheme  of  devotion  and 
protection. 

"When  I  think  of  what  you  have  been  through,"  I  said, 


50  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"my  heart  stands  still  for  very  tenderness.  Have  you  made 
any  plans?"  She  shook  her  head  with  such  a  perfection  of 
helplessness  that  I  broke  into  a  sort  of  rage  of  compassion: 
"One  of  the  last  things  your  father  said  to  me  was  that  you 
are  a  very  proud  woman." 

She  colored  faintly.  "I  may  have  been!  But  there  is 
not  among  the  most  abject  peasants  who  stand  kissing  St. 
Peter's  foot  a  creature  more  bowed  in  humility  than  I." 

"How  did  you  expect  to  make  that  weary  journey  home?'7 

She  was  silent  a  moment  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"O  don't  cross-question  me,  Mr.  Brooke!"  she  softly  cried; 
"I  expected  nothing.  I  was  waiting  for  my  stronger  self." 

"Perhaps  your  stronger  self  has  come."  She  rose  to  her 
feet  as  if  she  had  not  heard  me,  and  went  forward  to  meet 
her  maid.  This  was  a  decent,  capable-looking  person,  with 
a  great  deal  of  apparent  deference  of  manner.  As  I  re- 
joined them,  Miss  Evans  prepared  to  bid  me  farewell.  "You 
haven't  yet  asked  me  to  come  and  see  you,"  I  said. 

"Come,  but  not  too  soon?" 

"What  do  you  call  too  soon?    This  evening?" 

"Come  to-morrow."  She  refused  to  allow  me  to  go  with 
her  to  her  carriage.  I  followed  her,  however,  at  a  short  in- 
terval, and  went  as  usual  to  my  restaurant  to  dine.  I  re- 
member that  my  dinner  cost  me  ten  francs, — it  usually  cost 
me  five.  Afterwards,  as  usual,  I  adjourned  to  the  Caffe 
Greco,  where  I  met  my  German  archaeologist.  He  dis- 
coursed with  even  more  than  his  wonted  sagacity  and  elo- 
quence; but  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  rapped  his  fist  on 
the  table  and  asked  me  what  the  deuce  was  the  matter;  he 
would  wager  I  hadn't  heard  a  word  of  what  he  said. 

I  went  forth  the  next  morning  into  the  Roman  streets, 
doubting  heavily  of  my  being  able  to  exist  until  evening 
without  seeing  Miss  Evans.  I  felt,  however,  that  it  was 
due  to  her  to  make  the  effort.  To  help  myself  through  the 
morning,  I  went  into  the  Borghese  Gallery.  The  great 
treasure  of  this  collection  is  a  certain  masterpiece  of  Titian. 
I  entered  the  room  in  which  it  hangs  by  the  door  facing  the 
picture.  The  room  was  empty,  save  that  before  the  great 
Titian,  beside  the  easel  of  an  absent  copyist,  stood  a  young 


TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS  51 

woman  in  mourning.  This  time,  in  spite  of  her  averted 
head,  I  immediately  knew  her  and  noiselessly  approached 
her.  The  picture  is  one  of  the  finest  of  its  admirable  author, 
rich  and  simple  and  brilliant  with  the  true  Venetian  fire.  It 
unites  the  charm  of  an  air  of  latent  symbolism  with  a  stead- 
fast splendor  and  solid  perfection  of  design.  Beside  a  low 
sculptured  well  sit  two  young  and  beautiful  women:  one 
richly  clad,  and  full  of  mild  dignity  and  repose;  the  other 
with  unbound  hair,  naked,  ungirdled  by  a  great  reverted 
mantle  of  Venetian  purple,  and  radiant  with  the  frankest 
physical  sweetness  and  grace.  Between  them  a  little 
winged  cherub  bends  forward  and  thrusts  his  chubby  arm 
into  the  well.  The  picture  glows  with  the  inscrutable  chem- 
istry of  the  prince  of  colorists. 

"Does  it  remind  you  of  Venice?"  I  said,  breaking  a  long 
silence,  during  which  she  had  not  noticed  me. 

She  turned  and  her  face  seemed  bright  with  reflected 
color.  We  spoke  awhile  of  common  things;  she  had  come 
alone.  "What  an  emotion,  for  one  who  has  loved  Venice," 
she  said,  "to  meet  a  Titian  in  other  lands." 

"They  call  it,"  I  answered, — and  as  I  spoke  my  heart 
was  in  my  throat, — "a  representation  of  Sacred  and  Pro- 
fane Love.  The  name  perhaps  roughly  expresses  its  mean- 
ing. The  serious,  stately  woman  is  the  likeness,  one  may 
say,  of  love  as  an  experience, — the  gracious,  impudent  god- 
dess of  love  as  a  sentiment ;  this  of  the  passion  that  fancies, 
the  other  of  the  passion  that  knows."  And  as  I  spoke  I 
passed  my  arm,  in  its  strength,  around  her  waist.  She  let 
her  head  sink  on  my  shoulders  and  looked  up  into  my  eyes. 

"One  may  stand  for  the  love  I  denied,"  she  said;  "and 
the  other " 

"The  other,"  I  murmured,  "for  the  love  which,  with  this 
kiss,  you  accept."  I  drew  her  arm  into  mine,  and  before 
the  envious  eyes  that  watched  us  from  gilded  casements  we 
passed  through  the  gallery  and  left  the  palace.  We  went 
that  afternoon  to  the  Pamfili-Doria  Villa.  Saying  just  now 
that  my  stay  in  Florence  was  peculiarly  colored  by  circum- 
stances, I  meant  that  I  was  there  with  my  wife. 


THE   SWEETHEART  OF 
M.  BRISEUX 


THE  little  picture  gallery  at  M is  a  typical  musee 
de  province — cold,  musty,  unvisited,  and  enriched 
chiefly  with  miniature  works  by  painters  whose  maturity 
was  not  to  be  powerful.  The  floors  are  tiled  in  brick,  and 
the  windows  draped  in  faded  moreen;  the  very  light  seems 
pale  and  neutral,  as  if  the  dismal  lack-lustre  atmosphere 
of  the  pictures  were  contagious.  The  subjects  represented 
are  of  course  of  the  familiar  academic  sort — the  Wisdom  of 
Solomon  and  the  Fureurs  d'Oreste;  together  with  a  few 
elegant  landscapes  exhibiting  the  last  century  view  of 
nature,  and  half  a  dozen  neat  portraits  of  French  gentle- 
folks of  that  period,  in  the  act,  as  one  may  say,  cf  taking 
the  view  in  question.  To  me,  I  confess,  the  place  had  a 
melancholy  charm,  and  I  found  none  of  the  absurd  old 
paintings  too  absurd  to  enjoy.  There  is  always  an  agree- 
able finish  in  the  French  touch,  even  when  the  hand  is  not 
a  master's.  The  catalogue,  too,  was  prodigiously  queer;  a 
bit  tof  very  ancient  literature,  with  comments,  in  the 
manner  of  the  celebrated  M.  La  Harpe.  I  wondered,  as  I 
turned  its  pages,  into  what  measure  of  reprobation  pictures 
and  catalogue  together  had  been  compressed  by  that  sole 

son  of  M ,  who  has  achieved  more  than  local  renown 

in  the  arts.  Conjecture  was  pertinent,  for  it  was  in  these 
crepuscular  halls  that  this  deeply  original  artist  must  have 
heard  the  first  early  bird-notes  of  awakening  genius:  first, 
half  credulously,  as  we  may  suppose,  on  festal  Sundays, 
with  his  hand  in  his  father's,  gazing  rosy  and  wide-eyed  at 
the  classical  wrath  of  Achilles  and  the  sallow  flesh-tints 
of  Dido;  and  later,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  an  in- 
cipient critical  frown  and  the  mental  vision  of  an  Achilles 

53 


54  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

somehow  more  in  earnest  and  a  Dido  more  deeply  desirable. 
It  was  indeed  doubly  pertinent,  for  the  little  Musee  had  at 
last,  after  much  watching  and  waiting  and  bargaining,  be- 
come possessor  of  one  of  Briseux's  pictures.  I  was  promptly 
informed  of  the  fact  by  the  concierge,  a  person  much  reduced 
by  years  and  chronic  catarrh,  but  still  robust  enough  to  dis- 
play his  aesthetic  culture  to  a  foreigner  presumably  of  dis- 
tinction. He  led  me  solemnly  into  the  presence  of  the  great 
work,  and  placed  a  chair  for  me  in  the  proper  light.  The 
famous  painter  had  left  his  native  town  early  in  life,  before 
making  his  mark,  and  an  inappreciative  family — his  father 
was  a  small  apothecary  with  a  proper  admiration  of  the 
arts,  but  a  horror  of  artists — had  been  at  no  pains  to  pre- 
serve his  boyish  sketches.  The  more  fools  they!  The 
merest  scrawl  with  his  signature  now  brought  hundreds  of 
francs,  and  there  were  those  of  his  blood  still  in  the  town 
with  whom  the  francs  were  scarce  enough.  To  obtain  a 
serious  picture  had  of  course  been  no  small  affair,  and  little 
M ,  though  with  the  yearning  heart  of  a  mother,  hap- 
pened to  have  no  scanty  maternal  savings.  Yet  the  thing 
had  been  managed  by  subscription,  and  the  picture  paid 
for.  To  make  the  triumph  complete,  a  fortnight  after  it  had 
been  hung  on  its  nail,  M.  Briseux  succumbs  to  a  fever  in 
Rome  and  his  pictures  rise  to  the  most  fantastic  prices! 
This  was  the  very  work  which  had  made  the  painter  famous. 
The  portrait  of  a  Lady  in  a  Yellow  Shawl  in  the  Salon  of 
1836  had  fait  epoque.  Every  one  had  heard  of  the  Yellow 
Shawl;  people  talked  of  it  as  they  did  of  the  Chapeau  de 
Faille  of  Rubens  or  the  "Torn  Glove"  of  Titian;  or  if 
they  didn't,  posterity  would!  Such  was  the  discursive  mur- 
mur of  the  concierge  as  I  examined  this  precious  specimen 
of  Briseux's  first  manner;  and  there  was  a  plaintive  cadence 
in  this  last  assurance,  which  seemed  to  denote  a  too  vivid 
prevision  of  the  harvest  of  tributary  francs  to  be  reaped  by 
his  successors  in  office.  It  would  be  graceless  praise  to 
say  that  a  glimpse  of  the  picture  is  worth  your  franc.  It 
is  a  superb  performance,  and  I  spent  half  an  hour  before 
it  in  such  serene  enjoyment  that  I  forgot  the  concierge  was, 
a  bore. 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  55 

It  is  a  half-length  portrait  representing  a  young  woman, 
not  exactly  beautiful,  yet  very  far  from  plain,  draped  with 
a  singularly  simple  elegance  in  a  shawl  of  yellow  silk  em- 
broidered with  fantastic  arabesque.  She  is  dark  and  grave, 
her  dress  is  dark,  the  background  is  of  a  sober  tone,  and 
this  brilliant  scarf  glows  splendidly  by  contrast.  It  seems 
indeed  to  irradiate  luminous  color,  and  makes  the  picture 
brilliant  in  spite  of  its  sombre  accessories ;  and  yet  it  leaves 
their  full  value  to  the  tenderly  glowing  flesh  portions.  The 
portrait  lacks  a  certain  harmonious  finish,  that  masterly 
interfusion  of  parts  which  the  painter  afterwards  practised; 
the  touch  is  hasty,  and  here  and  there  a  little  heavy;  but 
its  splendid  vivacity  and  energy,  and  the  almost  boyish  good 
faith  of  some  of  its  more  venturesome  strokes,  make  it  a 
capital  example  of  that  momentous  point  in  the  history  of 
genius  when  still  tender  promise  blooms — in  a  night,  as  it 
were — into  perfect  force.  It  was  little  wonder  that  the 
picture  had  made  a  noise:  judges  of  the  more  penetrating 
sort  must  have  felt  that  it  contained  that  invaluable  some- 
thing which  an  artist  gives  but  once — the  prime  outgush  of 
his  effort — the  flower  of  his  originality.  As  I  continued  to 
look,  however,  I  began  to  wonder  whether  it  did  not  contain 
something  better  still — the  reflection  of  a  countenance  very 
nearly  as  deep  and  ardent  as  the  artist's  talent.  In  spite  of 
the  expressive  repose  of  the  figure  the  brow  and  mouth  wore 
a  look  of  smothered  agitation,  the  dark  gray  eye  almost 
glittered,  and  the  flash  in  the  cheek  burned  ominously.  Evi- 
dently this  was  the  picture  of  something  more  than  a  yellow 
shawl.  To  the  analytic  eye  it  was  the  picture  of  a  mind, 
or  at  least  of  a  mood.  "Who  was  the  lady?"  I  asked  of  my 
companion. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  for  an  instant  looked 
uncertain.  But,  as  a  Frenchman,  he  produced  his  hypothe- 
sis as  follows:  "Mon  Dieu!  a  sweetheart  of  M.  Briseux! — 
Ces  artistes!" 

I  left  my  place  and  passed  into  the  adjoining  rooms, 
where,  as  I  have  said,  I  found  half  an  hour's  diversion.  On 
my  return,  my  chair  was  occupied  by  a  lady,  apparently 
my  only  fellow-visitor.  I  noticed  her  no  further  than  to  see 


56  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

that,  though  comely,  she  was  no  longer  young,  that  she  was 
dressed  in  black,  and  that  she  was  looking  intently  at  the 
picture.  Her  intentness  indeed  at  last  attracted  me,  and 
while  I  lingered  to  gather  a  final  impression,  I  covertly 
glanced  at  her.  She  was  so  far  from  being  young  that  her 
hair  was  white,  but  with  that  charming  and  often  premature 
brilliancy  which  belongs  to  fine  brunettes.  The  concierge 
hovered  near,  narrating  and  expounding,  and  I  fancied  that 
her  brief  responses  (for  she  asked  no  questions)  betrayed 
an  English  accent.  But  I  had  doubtless  no  business  to  fancy 
anything,  for  my  companion,  as  if  with  a  sudden  embarrass- 
ing sense  of  being  watched,  gathered  her  shawl  about  her, 
rose,  and  prepared  to  turn  away.  I  should  have  imme- 
diately retreated,  but  that  with  this  movement  of  hers  our 
eyes  met,  and  in  the  light  of  her  rapid,  just  slightly  dep- 
recating glance,  I  read  something  which  helped  curiosity 
to  get  the  better  of  politeness.  She  walked  away,  and  I 
stood  staring;  and  as  she  averted  her  head  it  seemed  to 
me  that  my  rather  too  manifest  surprise  had  made  her 
blush.  I  watched  her  slowly  cross  the  room  and  pass  into 
the  next  one,  looking  very  vaguely  at  the  pictures;  and 
then  addressed  a  keenly  questioning  glance  at  the  Lady  with 
the  Yellow  Shawl.  Her  startlingly  vivid  eyes  answered  my 
question  most  distinctly.  I  was  satisfied,  and  I  left  the 
Musee. 

It  would  perhaps  be  more  correct  to  say  that  I  was 
wholly  unsatisfied.  I  strolled  at  haphazard  through  the 
little  town,  and  emerged,  as  a  matter  of  course,  on  the  local 

promenade.    The  promenade  at  M is  a  most  agreeable 

spot.  It  stretches  along  the  top  of  the  old  town  wall,  over 
whose  sturdy  parapet,  polished  by  the  peaceful  showers  of 
many  generations,  you  enjoy  a  view  of  the  pale-hued  but 
charming  Provencal  landscape.  The  middle  of  the  rampart 
is  adorned  with  a  row  of  close-clipped  lime-trees,  with 
benches  in  the  spaces  between  them;  and,  as  you  sit  in  the 
shade,  the  prospect  is  framed  to  your  vision  by  the  level 
parapet  and  the  even  limit  of  the  far-projecting  branches. 
What  you  see  is  therefore  a  long  horizontal  strip  of  land- 
scape— a  radiant  stretch  of  white  rocks  and  vaporous  olives, 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX          57 

scintillating  in  the  southern  light.  Except  a  bonne  or  two, 
with  a  couple  of  children  grubbing  in  the  gravel,  an  idle  ap- 
prentice in  a  blouse  dozing  on  a  bench,  and  a  couple  of  red- 
legged  soldiers  leaning  on  the  wall,  I  was  the  only  lounger 
on  the  rampart,  and  this  was  a  place  to  relish  solitude.  By 
nature  a  very  sentimental  traveler,  there  is  nothing  I  like 
better  than  to  light  a  cigar  and  lose  myself  in  a  meditative 
perception  of  local  color.  I  love  to  ruminate  the  picturesque, 
and  the  scene  before  me  was  redolent  of  it.  On  this  occa- 
sion, however,  the  shady  rampart  and  the  shining  distance 
were  less  interesting  than  a  figure,  disembodied  but  distinct, 
which  soon  obtruded  itself  on  my  attention.  The  mute 
assurance  gathered  before  leaving  the  Musee  had  done  as 
much  to  puzzle  as  to  enlighten  me.  Was  that  modest  and 
venerable  person,  then,  the  sweetheart  of  the  illustrious 
Briseux?  one  of  ces  artistes,  as  rumor  loudly  proclaimed 
him,  in  the  invidious  as  well  as  in  the  most  honorable  sense" 
of  the  term.  Plainly,  she  was  the  original  of  the  portrait. 
In  the  days  when  her  complexion  would  bear  it,  she  had 
worn  the  yellow  shawl.  Time  had  changed,  but  not  trans- 
formed her,  as  she  must  have  fancied  it  had,  to  come  and 
contemplate  thus  frankly  this  monument  of  her  early 
charms.  Why  had  she  come?  Was  it  accident,  or  was  it 
vanity?  How  did  it  seem  to  her  to  find  herself  so  strangely 
lifted  out  of  her  own  possession  and  made  a  helpless  spec- 
tator of  her  survival  to  posterity?  The  more  I  consulted 
my  impression  of  her,  the  more  certain  I  felt  that  she  was 
no  Frenchwoman,  but  a  modest  spinster  of  my  own  trans- 
atlantic race,  on  whom  posterity  had  as  little  claim  as  this 
musty  Musee,  which  indeed  possessed  much  of  that  sepul- 
chral chill  which  clings  to  such  knowledge  of  us  as  posterity 
enjoys.  I  found  it  hard  to  reconcile  the  lady  with  herself, 
and  it  was  with  the  restlessness  of  conjecture  that  I  left 
my  place  and  strolled  to  the  further  end  of  the  rampart. 
Here  conjecture  paused,  amazed  at  its  opportunities;  for  M. 
Briseux's  sweetheart  was  seated  on  a  bench  under  the  lime- 
trees.  She  was  gazing  almost  as  thoughtfully  on  the  distant 
view  as  she  had  done  on  her  portrait;  but  as  I  passed,  she 
gave  me  a  glance  from  which  embarrassment  seemed  to  have 


58  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

vanished.  I  slowly  walked  the  length  of  the  rampart  again, 
and  as  I  went  an  impulse,  born  somehow  of  the  delicious 
mild  air,  the  light-bathed  landscape  of  rock  and  olive,  and  of 
the  sense  of  a  sort  of  fellowship  in  isolation  in  the  midst  of 
these  deeply  foreign  influences,  as  well  as  of  a  curiosity 
which  was  after  all  but  the  frank  recognition  of  an  obvious 
fact,  was  transmuted  into  a  decision  sufficiently  remarkable 
in  a  bashful  man.  I  proceeded  gravely  to  carry  it  out.  I 
approached  my  companion  and  bowed.  She  acknowledged 
my  bow  with  a  look  which,  though  not  exactly  mistrustful, 
seemed  to  demand  an  explanation.  To  give  it,  I  seated  my- 
self beside  her.  Something  in  her  face  made  explanation 
easy.  I  was  sure  that  she  was  an  old  maid,  and  gently  but 
frankly  eccentric.  Her  age  left  her  at  liberty  to  be  as 
frank  as  she  chose,  and  though  I  was  somewhat  her  junior, 
I  had  gray  hairs  enough  in  my  mustache  to  warrant  her  in 
smiling  at  my  almost  ardent  impatience.  Her  smile,  when 
she  perceived  that  my  direct  appeal  was  deeply  respectful, 
broke  into  a  genial  laugh  which  completed  our  introduction. 
To  her  inner  sense,  as  well,  evidently,  the  gray  indifference 
of  the  historic  rampart,  the  olive-sown  landscape,  the  sweet 
foreign  climate,  left  the  law  very  much  in  our  own  hands; 
and  then  moreover,  as  something  in  her  eyes  proclaimed, 
the  well  of  memory  in  her  soul  had  been  so  strongly  stirred 
that  it  naturally  overflowed.  I  fancy  that  she  looked  more 
like  her  portrait  for  that  hour  or  two  than  she  had  done  in 
twenty  years.  At  any  rate,  it  had  come  to  seem,  before 
many  minutes,  a  delightful  matter  of  course  that  I  should 
sit  there — a  perfect  stranger — listening  to  the  story  into 
which  her  broken  responses  to  my  first  questions  gradually 
shaped  themselves.  I  should  add  that  I  had  made  a  point 
of  appearing  a  zealous  student  of  the  lamented  Briseux. 
This  was  no  more  than  the  truth,  and  I  proved  categorically 
that  I  knew  his  works.  We  were  thus  pilgrims  in  the  same 
faith,  and  licensed  to  discuss  its  mysteries.  I  repeat  her 
story  literally,  and  I  surely  don't  transgress  the  proper  limits 
of  editorial  zeal  in  supplying  a  single  absent  clause:  she 
must  in  those  days  have  been  a  wonderfully  charming 
girl. 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX          59 

I  have  been  spending  the  winter  (she  said)  with  my 
niece  at  Cannes,  where  I  accidentally  heard  from  an  English 
gentleman  interested  in  such  matters,  that  Briseux's  "Yel- 
low Shawl"  had  been  purchased  by  this  little  Musee.  He 
had  stopped  to  see  it  on  his  way  from  Paris,  and,  though  a 
famous  connoisseur,  poor  man,  do  you  know  he  never  dis- 
covered what  it  took  you  but  a  moment  to  perceive?  1 
didn't  enlighten  him,  in  spite  of  his  kindness  in  explaining, 
"Bradshaw"  in  hand,  just  how  I  might  manage  to  diverge 

on  my  way  to  Paris  and  give  a  day  to  M .  I  contented 

myself  with  telling  him  that  I  had  known  M.  Briseux  thirty 
years  ago,  and  had  chanced  to  have  the  first  glimpse  of  his 
first  masterpiece.  Even  this  suggested  nothing.  But  in  fact, 
why  should  it  have  suggested  anything?  As  I  sat  before 
the  picture  just  now,  I  felt  in  all  my  pulses  that  I  am  not 
the  person  who  stands  masquerading  there  with  that 
strangely  cynical  smile.  That  poor  girl  is  dead  and  buried ; 
I  should  tell  no  falsehood  in  saying  I'm  not  she.  Yet  as  I 
looked  at  her,  time  seemed  to  roll  backward  and  experience 
to  repeat  itself.  Before  me  stood  a  pale  young  man  in  a 
ragged  coat,  with  glowing  dark  eyes,  brushing  away  at  a 
great  canvas,  with  gestures  more  like  those  of  inspiration 
than  any  I  have  ever  seen.  I  seemed  to  see  myself — to  be 
myself — muffled  in  that  famous  shawl,  posing  there  for 
hours  in  a  sort  of  fever  that  made  me  unconscious  of  fatigue. 
I've  often  wondered  whether,  during  those  memorable  hours, 
I  was  more  or  less  myself  than  usual,  and  whether  the  sin- 
gular episode  they  brought  forth  was  an  act  of  folly  or  of 
transcendent  reason.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me. 

It  was  in  Paris,  in  my  twenty-first  year.  I  had  come 
abroad  with  Mrs.  Staines,  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  my 
mother's,  who  during  the  last  days  of  her  life,  a  year  before, 
had  consigned  me  appealingly  to  this  lady's  protection. 
But  for  Mrs.  Staines,  indeed,  I  should  have  been  homeless. 
My  brother  had  recently  married,  but  not  happily,  and  ex- 
periment had  shown  me  that  under  his  roof  I  was  an  in- 
different peacemaker.  Mrs.  Staines  was  what  is  called  a 
very  superior  person — a  person  with  an  aquiline  nose,  who 
wore  gloves  in  the  house,  and  gave  you  her  ear  to  kiss. 


60  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

My  mother,  who  considered  her  the  wisest  of  women,  had 
written  her  every  week  since  their  schooldays  a  crossed  let- 
ter beginning  "My  dearest  Lucretia";  but  it  was  my  poor 
mother's  nature  to  like  being  patronized  and  bullied.  Mrs. 
Staines  would  send  her  by  return  of  mail  a  budget  of  advice 
adapted  to  her  "station" — this  being  a  considerate  mode  of 
allusion  to  the  fact  that  she  had  married  a  very  poor  clergy- 
man. Mrs.  Staines  received  me,  however,  with  such  sub- 
stantial kindness,  that  I  should  have  had  little  grace  to 
complain  that  the  manner  of  it  was  frigid.  When  I  knew 
her  better  I  forgave  her  frigidity,  for  it  was  that  of  a  disap- 
pointed woman.  She  was  ambitious,  and  her  ambitions  had 
failed.  She  had  married  a  very  clever  man,  a  rising  young 
lawyer,  of  political  tendencies,  who  promised  to  become 
famous.  She  would  have  enjoyed  above  all  things  being  the 
wife  of  a  legal  luminary,  and  she  would  have  insisted  on  his 
expanding  to  the  first  magnitude.  She  believed  herself 
born,  I  think,  to  be  the  lawful  Egeria  of  a  cabinet  minister. 
A  cabinet  minister  poor  Mr.  Staines  might  have  become 
if  he  had  lived;  but  he  broke  down  at  thirty-five  from  over- 
work, and  a  year  later  his  wife  had  to  do  double  mourning. 
As  time  went  on  she  transferred  her  hopes  to  her  only 
boy;  but  here  her  disappointment  lay  the  heavier  on  her 
heart  that  maternal  pride  had  bidden  it  be  forever  dumb. 
He  would  never  tread  in  his  father's  steps,  nor  redeem  his 
father's  pledges.  His  genius — if  genius  it  was — was  bent 
in  quite  another  way,  and  he  was  to  be,  not  a  useful,  but 
an  ornamental  member  of  society.  Extremely  ornamental 
he  seemed  likely  to  become,  and  his  mother  found  partial 
comfort  as  he  grew  older.  He  did  his  duty  apparently  in 
growing  up  so  very  handsome  that,  whatever  else  he  might 
do,  he  would  be  praised  less  for  that  than  for  his  good  looks. 
They  were  those  of  a  decorous  young  Apollo.  When  I  first 
saw  him,  as  he  was  leaving  college,  he  might  well  have 
passed  for  an  incipient  great  man.  He  had  in  perfection  the* 
air  of  distinction,  and  he  carried  it  out  in  gesture  and  man- 
ner. Never  was  a  handsomer,  graver,  better-bred  young 
man.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and  fair,  with  the  finest  blond 
hair  curling  close  about  his  shapely  head;  a  blue  eye,  as 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX          61 

clear  and  cold  as  a  winter's  morning;  a  set  of  teeth  so  hand- 
some that  his  infrequent  smile  might  have  seemed  almost 
a  matter  of  modesty;  and  a  general  expression  of  discretion 
and  maturity  which  seemed  to  protest  against  the  imputa- 
tion of  foppishness.  After  a  while,  probably,  you  would 
have  found  him  too  imperturbably  neat  and  polite,  and  have 
liked  him  better  if  his  manner  had  been  sometimes  at  fault 
and  his  cravat  occasionally  awry.  Me,  I  confess,  he  vastly 
impressed  from  the  first,  and  I  secretly  worshipped  him.  I 
had  never  seen  so  fine  a  gentleman,  and  I  doubted  if  the 
world  contained  such  another.  My  experience  of  the  world 
was  small,  and  I  had  lived  among  what  Harold  Staines 
would  have  considered  very  shabby  people — several  of 
whom  wore  ill-brushed  hats.  I  was,  therefore,  not  sorry 
to  find  that  I  appreciated  merit  of  the  most  refined  sort; 
and  in  fact,  ignorant  though  I  was,  my  judgment  was  not  at 
fault.  Harold  was  perfectly  honorable  and  amiable,  and 
his  only  fault  was  that  he  looked  wiser  than  he  could  rea- 
sonably be  expected  to  be.  In  the  evening  especially,  in  a 
white  cravat,  leaning  in  a  doorway,  and  overtopping  the 
crowd  by  his  whole  handsome  head,  he  seemed  some  in- 
scrutable young  diplomatist  whose  skepticism  hadn't  under- 
mined his  courtesy. 

He  had,  through  his  mother,  expectation  of  property 
sufficient  to  support  him  in  ample  ease;  but  though  he  had 
elegant  tastes,  idleness  was  not  one  of  them,  and  he  agreed 
with  his  mother  that  he  ought  to  choose  a  profession.  Then 
it  was  that  she  fully  measured  her  disappointment.  There 
had  been  nothing  in  her  family  but  judges  and  bishops,  and 
anything  else  was  of  questionable  respectability.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  talk  on  the  matter  between  them;  fo£ 
superficially  at  least  they  were  a  most  united  pair,  and  if 
Harold  had  not  asked  her  opinion  from  conviction  he  would 
have  done  so  from  politeness.  In  reality,  I  believe,  there 
was  but  one  person  in  the  world  whose  opinion  he  greatly 
cared  for — and  that  person  was  not  Mrs.  Staines;  nor  had 
it  yet  come  to  pass  that  he  pretended  for  a  while  it  was  I. 
It  was  so  far  from  being  Mrs.  Staines  that  one  day,  after 
a  long  talk,  I  found  her  leaving  him  in  tears ;  and  tears  with 


62  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

this  superior  woman  were  an  event  of  portentous  rarity. 
Harold  on  the  same  day  was  not  at  home  at  dinner,  and  I 
thought  the  next  day  held  his  handsome  head  even  higher 
than  usual.  I  asked  no  questions,  but  a  little  later  my  curi- 
osity was  satisfied.  Mrs.  Staines  informed  me,  with  an  air 
of  dignity  which  evidently  cost  her  some  effort  and  seemed 
intended  to  deprecate  criticism,  that  Harold  had  determined 
to  be  an — artist.  "It's  not  the  career  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred," she  said,  "but  my  son  has  talent— and  respecta- 
bility— which  will  make  it  honorable."  That  Harold  would 
do  anything  more  for  the  profession  of  the  brush  than 
Raphael  and  Rembrandt  had  done,  I  was  perhaps  not  pre- 
pared to  affirm;  but  I  answered  that  I  was  very  glad,  and 
that  I  wished  him  all  success.  Indeed,  I  was  not  surprised, 
for  Mrs.  Staines  had  what  in  any  one  else  would  have  been 
called  a  mania  for  pictures  and  bronzes,  old  snuff-boxes  and 
candlesticks.  He  had  not  apparently  used  his  pencil  very 
freely;  but  he  had  recently  procured — indeed,  I  think  he  had 
himself  designed — a  "sketching  apparatus"  of  the  most  lav- 
ish ingenuity.  He  was  now  going  to  use  it  in  earnest,  and  I 
remember  reflecting  with  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction  that  the 
great  white  umbrella  which  formed  its  principal  feature  was 
large  enough  to  protect  his  handsome  complexion  from  the 
sun. 

It  was  at  this  time  I  came  to  Mrs.  Staines  to  stay  indefi- 
nitely— with  doubts  and  fears  so  few  that  I  must  have  been 
either  very  ignorant  or  very  confident.  I  had  indeed  an 
ample  measure  of  the  blessed  simplicity  of  youth;  but  if  I 
judged  my  situation  imperfectly,  I  did  so  at  any  rate  with 
a  conscience.  I  was  stoutly  determined  to  receive  no  favors 
that  I  couldn't  repay,  and  to  be  as  quietly  useful  and 
gracefully  agreeable  as  I  could  modestly  devise  occasion 
for.  I  was  a  homeless  girl,  but  I  was  not  a  poor  relation. 
My  fortune  was  slender,  but  I  was  ready  to  go  out  into  the 
world  and  seek  a  better,  rather  than  fall  into  an  attitude  of 
irresponsive  dependence.  Mrs.  Staines  thought  at  first 
that  I  was  dull  and  amiable,  and  that  as  a  companion  I 
would  do  no  great  credit  to  anything  but  her  benevolence. 
Later,  for  a  time,  as  I  gave  proofs  of  some  sagacity  and  per- 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  63 

haps  of  some  decision,  I  think  she  fancied  me  a  schemer 
and — Heaven  forgive  her! — a  hypocrite.  But  at  last,  evi- 
dently— although  to  the  end,  I  believe,  she  continued  to 
compliment  my  shrewdness  at  the  expense  of  that  feminine 
sweetness  by  which  I  should  have  preferred  to  commend 
myself — she  decided  that  I  was  a  person  of  the  best  in- 
tentions, and — here  comes  my  story — that  I  would  make  a 
suitable  wife  for  her  son. 

To  this  unexpectedly  flattering  conclusion,  of  course,  she 
was  slow  in  coming;  it  was  the  result  of  the  winter  we 
passed  together  after  Harold  had  "turned  his  attention,"  as 
his  mother  always  publicly  phrased  it,  "to  art."  He  had 
declared  that  we  must  immediately  go  abroad  that  he  might 
study  the  works  of  the  masters.  His  mother,  I  believe, 
suggested  that  he  might  begin  with  the  rudiments  nearer 
home.  But  apparently  he  had  mastered  the  rudiments,  for 
she  was  overruled  and  we  went  to  Rome.  I  don't  know  how 
many  of  the  secrets  of  the  masters  Harold  learned;  but  we 
passed  a  delightful  winter.  He  began  his  studies  with  the 
solemn  promptitude  which  he  used  in  all  things,  and  de- 
voted a  great  deal  of  time  to  copying  from  the  antique  in 
the  Vatican  and  the  Capitol.  He  worked  slowly,  but  with 
extraordinary  precision  and  neatness,  and  finished  his  draw- 
ings with  exquisite  care.  He  was  openly  very  little  of  a 
dogmatist,  but  on  coming  to  know  him  you  found  that  he 
had  various  principles  of  which  he  was  extremely  tenacious. 
Several  of  these  related  to  the  proportions  of  the  human 
body,  as  ascertained  by  himself.  They  constituted,  he 
affirmed,  an  infallible  method  for  learning  to  draw.  If 
other  artists  didn't  know  it,  so  much  the  worse  for  them. 
He  applied  this  rare  method  persistently  all  winter,  and 
carried  away  from  Rome  a  huge  portfolio  full  of  neatly 
shaded  statues  and  statuesque  contadini.  At  first  he  had 
^one  into  a  painter's  studio  with  several  other  pupils,  but 
he  took  no  fancy  to  either  his  teacher  or  his  companions, 
and  came  home  one  day  in  disgust,  declaring  that  he  hact 
washed  his  hands  of  them.  As  he  never  talked  about  dis- 
agreeable things,  he  said  nothing  as  to  what  had  vexed 
him ;  but  I  guessed  that  he  had  received  some  mortal  offence, 


64  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

and  I  was  not  surprised  that  he  shouldn't  care  to  frater- 
nize with  the  common  herd  of  art-students.  They  had 
long,  untidy  hair,  and  smoked  bad  tobacco;  they  lay  na 
one  knew  where,  and  borrowed  money  and  took  liberties. 
Mr.  Staines  certainly  was  not  a  man  to  refuse  a  needy  friend 
a  napoleon,  but  he  couldn't  forgive  a  liberty.  He  took  none 
with  himself!  We  became  very  good  friends,  and  it  was 
especially  for  this  that  I  liked  him.  Nothing  is  truer  than 
that  in  the  long  run  we  like  our  opposites ;  they're  a  change 
and  a  rest  from  ourselves.  I  confess  that  my  good  intentions 
sometimes  clashed  with  a  fatal  light-headedness,  of  which 
a  fair  share  of  trouble  had  not  cured  me.  In  moments  of 
irritation  I  had  a  trick  of  giving  the  reins  to  my  "sar- 
casm ; "  so  at  least  my  partners  in  quadrilles  had  often  called 
it.  At  my  leisure  I  was  sure  to  repent,  and  frank  public 
amends  followed  fast  on  the  heels  of  offence.  Then  I  be- 
lieve I  was  called  generous — not  only  by  my  partners  in 
quadrilles.  But  I  had  a  secret  admiration  for  people  who 
were  just,  from  the  first  and  always,  and  whose  demeanor 
seemed  to  shape  itself  with  a  sort  of  harmonious  unity,  like 
the  outline  of  a  beautiful  statue.  Harold  Staines  was  a  fin- 
ished gentleman,  as  we  used  to  say  in  those  days,  and  I 
admired  him  the  more  that  I  still  had  ringing  in  my  ears 
that  eternal  refrain  of  my  schoolroom  days — "My  child, 
my  child,  when  will  you  ever  learn  to  be  a  lady?"  He 
seemed  to  me  an  embodiment  of  the  serene  amenities  of 
life,  and  I  didn't  know  how  very  great  a  personage  I  thought 
him  until  I  once  overheard  a  young  man  in  a  crowd  at  St. 
Peter's  call  him  that  confounded  prig.  Then  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  a  very  coarse  and  vulgar  world,  and 
that  Mr.  Staines  was  too  good  for  it. 

This  impression  was  not  removed  by — I  hardly  know 
what  to  call  it — the  gallant  propriety  of  his  conduct  toward 
me.  He  had  treated  me  at  first  with  polite  condescension, 
as  a  very  young  and  rather  humble  person,  whose  presence 
in  the  house  rested  on  his  mother's  somewhat  eccentric 
benevolence,  rather  than  on  any  very  obvious  merits  of  her 
own.  But  later,  as  my  native  merit,  whatever  it  was,  got 
the  better  of  my  shyness,  he  approached  me,  especially  in 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX          65 

company,  with  a  sort  of  ceremonious  consideration  which 
seemed  to  give  notice  to  the  world  that  if  his  mother  and  he, 
treated  me  as  their  equal — why,  I  was  their  equal.  At 
last,  one  fine  day  in  Rome,  I  learned  that  I  had  the  honor 
to  please  him.  It  had  seemed  to  me  so  little  of  a  matter 
of  course  that  I  should  captivate  Mr.  Staines,  that  for  a 
moment  I  was  actually  disappointed,  and  felt  disposed  to 
tell  him  that  I  had  expected  more  of  his  taste.  But  as  I 
grew  used  to  the  idea,  I  found  no  fault  with  it,  and  I  felt 
prodigiously  honored.  I  didn't  take  him  for  a  man  of 
genius,  but  his  admiration  pleased  me  more  than  if  it  had 
come  in  chorus  from  a  dozen  of  the  men  of  genius  whom  I 
had  had  pointed  out  to  me  at  archaeological  picnics.  They 
somehow  were  covered  with  the  world's  rust  and  haunted 
with  the  world's  errors,  and  certainly  on  any  vital  question 
could  not  be  trusted  to  make  their  poor  wives  the  same 
answers  two  days  running.  Besides,  they  were  dreadfully 
ugly.  Harold  was  consistency  itself,  and  his  superior  man- 
ner and  fine  blond  beauty  seemed  a  natural  result  of  his 
spiritual  serenity.  The  way  he  declared  himself  was  very 
characteristic,  and  to  some  girls  might  have  seemed  prosaic. 
To  my  mind  it  had  a  peculiar  dignity.  I  had  asked  him,  a 
week  before,  as  we  stood  on  the  platform  before  the  Lateran, 
some  question  about  the  Claudian  aqueduct,  which  he  had 
been  unable  to  answer  at  the  moment,  although  on  coming 
to  Rome  he  had  laid  in  a  huge  provision  of  books  of  refer- 
ence which  he  consulted  with  unfailing  diligence.  "I'll  look 
it  up,"  he  said  gravely;  but  I  thought  no  more  about  it, 
and  a  few  days  afterwards,  when  he  asked  me  to  ride  with 
him  on  the  Campagna,  I  never  supposed  I  was  to  be  treated 
to  an  archaeological  lecture.  It  was  worthy  of  a  wiser  lis- 
tener. He  led  the  way  to  a  swelling  mound,  overlooking  the 
long  stretch  of  the  aqueduct,  and  poured  forth  the  result 
of  his  researches.  This  was  surely  not  a  trivial  compliment ; 
and  it  seemed  to  me  a  finer  sort  of  homage  than  if  he  had 
offered  me  a  fifty-franc  bouquet  or  put  his  horse  at  a  six- 
foot  wall.  He  told  me  the  number  of  the  arches,  and  very 
possibly  of  the  stones;  his  story  bristled  with  learning. 
I  listened  respectfully  and  stared  hard  at  the  long  ragged 


66  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

ruin,  as  if  it  had  suddenly  become  intensely  interesting.  But 
it  was  Mr.  Staines  who  was  interesting :  all  honor  to  the  man 
who  kept  his  polite  promises  so  handsomely !  I  said  nothing 
when  he  paused,  and  after  a  few  minutes  was  going  to  turn 
away  my  horse.  Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  bridle,  and, 
in  the  same  tone,  as  if  he  were  still  talking  of  the  aqueduct, 
informed  me  of  the  state  of  his  affections.  I,  in  my  unsus- 
pectingness,  had  enslaved  them,  and  it  was  proper  that  I 
should  know  he  adored  me.  Proper!  I  have  always  re- 
membered the  word,  though  I  was  far  from  thinking  then 
that  it  clashed  with  his  eloquence.  It  often  occurred  to  me 
afterwards  as  the  key-note  of  his  character.  In  a  moment 
more,  he  formally  offered  himself. 

Don't  be  surprised  at  these  details:  to  be  just  I  must  be 
perfectly  frank,  and  if  I  consented  to  tell  you  my  story,  it 
is  because  I  fancied  I  should  find  profit  in  hearing  it  myself. 
As  I  speak  my  words  come  back  to  me.  I  left  Rome  en- 
gaged to  Mr.  Staines,  subject  to  his  mother's  approval.  He 
might  dispense  with  it,  I  told  him,  but  I  could  not,  and  as 
yet  I  had  no  reason  to  expect  it.  She  would,  of  course, 
wish  him  to  marry  a  woman  of  more  consequence.  Mine 
of  late  had  risen  in  her  eyes,  but  she  could  hardly  regard 
me  as  yet  as  a  possible  daughter-in-law.  With  time  I 
hoped  to  satisfy  her  and  to  receive  her  blessing.  Then  I 
would  ask  for  no  further  delay.  We  journeyed  slowly  up 
from  Rome  along  the  Mediterranean,  stopping  often  for 
several  days  to  allow  Harold  to  sketch.  He  depicted  moun- 
tains and  villages  with  the  same  diligence  as  the  statues  in 
the  Vatican,  and  presumably  with  the  same  success.  As 
his  winter's  practice  had  given  him  great  facility,  he  would 
dash  off  a  magnificent  landscape  in  a  single  morning.  I 
always  thought  it  strange  that,  being  very  sober  in  his 
speech  and  manner,  he  should  be  extremely  fond  of  color  in 
art.  Such  at  least  was  the  fact,  and  these  rapid  water- 
colors  were  a  wonderful  medley.  Crimson  and  azure,  orange 
and  emerald — nothing  less  would  satisfy  him.  But,  for  that 
matter,  nature  in  those  regions  has  a  dazzling  brightness. 
So  at  least  it  had  for  a  lively  girl  of  twenty,  just  engaged. 
So  it  had  for  a  certain  time  afterwards.  I'll  not  deny, 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX          67 

the  lustrous  sea  and  sky  began  vaguely  to  reflect  my  own 
occasionally  sombre  mood.  How  to  explain  to  you  the 
process  of  my  feeling  at  this  time  is  more  than  I  can  say; 
how  especially  to  make  you  believe  that  I  was  neither  per- 
verse nor  capricious.  I  give  it  up;  I  can  only  assure  you 
that  I  observed  my  emotions,  even  before  I  understood  them, 
with  painful  surprise.  I  was  not  disillusioned,  but  an  end 
had  suddenly  come  to  my  elation.  It  was  as  if  my  heart 
had  had  wings,  which  had  been  suddenly  clipped.  I  have 
never  been  especially  fond  of  my  own  possessions,  and  I 
have  learned  that  if  I  wish  to  admire  a  thing  in  peace,  I 
must  remain  at  a  respectful  distance.  My  happiness  in 
Harold's  affection  reached  its  climax  too  suddenly,  and 
before  I  knew  it  I  found  myself  wondering,  questioning,  and 
doubting.  It  was  no  fault  of  his,  certainly,  and  he  had 
promised  me  nothing  that  he  was  not  ready  to  bestow.  He 
was  all  attention  and  decorous  devotion.  If  there  was  a 
fault,  it  was  mine,  for  having  judged  like  the  very  young 
and  uninformed  person  I  was.  Since  my  engagement  I  felt 
five  years  older,  and  the  first  use  I  made  of  my  maturity 
— cruel  as  it  may  seem — was  to  turn  round  and  look  keenly 
at  my  lover  and  revise  my  judgment.  His  rigid  urbanity 
was  still  extremely  impressive,  but  at  times  I  could  have 
fancied  that  I  was  listening  to  a  musical  symphony,  of 
which  only  certain  brief,  unresonant  notes  were  audible. 
Was  this  all,  and  were  there  no  others?  It  occurred  to  me 
more  than  once,  with  a  kind  of  dull  dismay,  in  the  midst  of 
my  placid  expectancy,  that  Harold's  grave  notes  were  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  his  character.  If  the  human  heart 
were  a  less  incurable  skeptic,  I  might  have  been  divinely 
happy.  I  sat  by  my  lover's  side  while  he  worked,  gazing 
at  the  loveliest  landscape  in  the  world,  and  admiring  the 
imperturbable  audacity  with  which  he  attacked  it.  Sooner 
than  I  expected,  these  rather  silent  interviews,  as  romantic 
certainly  as  scenery  could  make  them,  received  Mrs.  Staines's 
sanction.  She  had  guessed  our  secret,  and  disapproved  of 
nothing  but  its  secrecy.  She  was  satisfied  with  her  son's 
choice,  and  declared  with  great  emphasis  that  she  was  not 
ambitious.  She  was  kindness  itself  (though,  as  you  see,  she 


68  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

indulged  in  no  needless  flattery),  and  I  wondered  that  I 
could  ever  have  thought  her  stern.  From  this  time  forward 
she  talked  to  me  a  great  deal  about  her  son;  too  much,  I 
might  have  thought,  if  I  had  cared  less  for  the  theme.  I 
have  said  I  was  not  perverse.  Do  I  judge  myself  too  ten- 
derly? Before  long  I  found  something  oppressive — some- 
thing almost  irritating — in  the  frequency  and  complacency 
of  Mrs.  Staines's  maternal  disquisitions.  One  day,  when 
she  had  been  reminding  me  at  greater  length  than  usual  of 
what  a  prize  I  had  drawn,  I  abruptly  changed  the  subject 
in  the  midst  of  a  sentence,  and  left  her  staring  at  my  petu- 
lance. She  was  on  the  point,  I  think,  of  administering  a 
reprimand,  but  she  suppressed  it  and  contented  herself  with 
approaching  the  topic  more  cautiously  in  future.  Here  is 
another  reminiscence.  One  morning  (it  was  near  Spezia,  I 
think)  Harold  had  been  sketching  under  a  tree,  not  far 
from  the  inn,  and  I  sitting  by  and  reading  aloud  from 
Shelley,  whom  one  might  feel  a  kindness  for  there  if  no- 
where else.  We  had  had  a  little  difference  of  opinion  about 
one  of  the  poems — the  beautiful  "Stanzas  Written  in  Dejec- 
tion near  Naples,"  which  you  probably  remember.  Harold 
pronounced  them  childish.  I  thought  the  term  ill-chosen, 
and  remember  saying,  to  reinforce  my  opinion,  that  though 
I  was  no  judge  of  painting,  I  pretended  to  be  of  poetry.  He 
told  me  (I  have  not  forgotten  his  words)  that  "I  lacked 
cultivation  in  each  department,"  and  I  believe  I  replied  that 
I  would  rather  lack  cultivation  than  imagination.  For  a 
pair  of  lovers  it  was  a  very  pretty  quarrel  as  it  stood. 
Shortly  afterwards  he  discovered  that  he  had  left  one  of 
his  brushes  at  the  inn,  and  went  off  in  search  of  it.  He  had 
trouble  in  finding  it,  and  was  absent  for  some  time.  His 
verdict  on  poor  Shelley  rang  in  my  ears  as  I  sat  looking  out 
on  the  blue  iridescence  of  the  sea,  and  murmuring  the  lines 
in  which  the  poet  has  so  wonderfully  suggested  it.  Then 
I  went  and  sat  down  on  Harold's  stool  to  see  how  he  had 
rendered  this  enchanting  effect.  The  picture  was  nearly 
finished,  but  unfortunately  I  had  too  little  cultivation  to 
enjoy  it.  The  blue  sea,  however,  seemed  in  all  conscience 
blue  enough.  While  I  was  comparing  it  with  the  far-fading 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  69 

azure  of  the  original,  I  heard  a  voice  behind  me,  and  turn- 
ing, saw  two  gentlemen  from  the  inn,  one  of  whom  had  been 
my  neighbor  the  evening  before  at  dinner.  He  was  a 
foreigner,  but  he  spoke  English.  On  recognizing  me  he 
advanced  gallantly,  ushering  his  companion,  and  imme- 
diately fell  into  ecstasies  over  my  picture.  I  informed 
him  without  delay  that  the  picture  was  not  mine;  it  was 
the  work  of  Mr.  Staines.  Nothing  daunted,  he  declared 
that  it  was  pretty  enough  to  be  mine,  and  that  I  must  have 
given  suggestions ;  but  his  companion,  a  less  superficial  char- 
acter apparently,  and  extremely  near-sighted,  after  examin- 
ing it  minutely  with  his  nose  close  to  the  paper,  exclaimed 
with  an  annoying  smile,  "Monsieur  Staines?  Surprising! 
I  should  have  sworn  it  was  the  work  of  a  jeune  file" 

The  compliment  was  doubtful,  and  not  calculated  to  re- 
store my  equanimity.  As  a  jeune  fille  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  been  gratified,  but  as  a  betrothed  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred Harold  to  paint  like  a  man.  I  don't  "know  how 
long  after  this  it  was  that  I  allowed  myself  to  wonder,  by 
way  of  harmless  conjecture,  how  a  woman  might  feel  who 
should  find  herself  married  to  an  ineffective  mediocrity. 
Then  I  remembered — as  if  the  case  were  my  own — that 
I  had  never  heard  any  one  talk  about  his  pictures,  and  that 
when  I  had  seen  them  handed  about  before  company  by  his 
mother,  the  buzz  of  admiration  usual  on  such  occasions 
seemed  rather  heavy-winged.  But  I  quickly  reminded  my- 
self that  it  was  not  because  he  painted  better  or  worse  that 
I  cared  for  him,  but  because  personally  and  morally  he  was 
the  pink  of  perfection.  This  being  settled,  I  fell  to  wonder- 
ing whether  one  jmightn't  grow  weary  of  perfection — 
whether  (Heaven  forgive  me!)  I  was  not  already  the  least 
bit  out  of  patience  with  Harold's.  I  could  fancy  him  a 
trifle  too  absolute,  too  imperturbable,  too  prolific  in  cut-and- 
dried  opinions.  Had  he  settled  everything,  then,  in  his 
mind?  Yes,  he  had  certainly  made  the  most  of  his  time, 
and  I  could  only  admire  his  diligence.  From  the  moment 
that  I  observed  that  he  wasted  no  time  in  moods,  or  reveries, 
or  intellectual  pleasantry  of  any  sort,  I  decided  without 
appeal  that  he  was  not  a  man  of  genius;  and  yet,  to  listen 


70  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

to  him  at  times,  you  would  have  vowed  at  least  that  he 
might  be.  He  dealt  out  his  opinions  as  if  they  were  celestial 
manna,  and  nothing  was  more  common  than  for  him  to  say, 
"You  remember,  a  month  ago,  I  told  you  so-and-so ! "  mean- 
ing that  he  had  laid  down  the  law  on  some  point  and  ex- 
pected me  to  engrave  it  on  my  heart.  It  often  happened 
that  I  had  forgotten  the  lesson,  and  was  obliged  to  ask  him 
to  repeat  it;  but  it  left  me  more  unsatisfied  than  before. 
Harold  would  settle  his  shirt  collar  as  if  he  considered  that 
he  had  exhausted  the  subject,  and  I  would  take  refuge  in 
a  silence  which  from  day  to  day  covered  more  treacherous 
conjectures.  Nevertheless  (strange  as  you  may  think  it),  I 
believe  I  should  have  decided  that,  Harold  being  a  para- 
gon, my  doubts  were  immoral,  if  Mrs.  Staines,  after  his 
cause  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  gained,  had  not  per- 
sisted in  pleading  it  in  season  and  out.  I  don't  know 
whether  she  suspected  my  secret  falterings,  but  she  seemed 
to  wish  to  secure  me  beyond  relapse.  I  was  so  very  modest 
a  match  for  her  son,  that  if  I  had  been  more  worldly-wise, 
her  enthusiasm  might  have  alarmed  me.  Later  I  under- 
stood it;  then  I  only  understood  that  there  was  a  general 
flavor  of  insinuation  in  her  talk  which  made  me  vaguely 
uneasy.  I  did  the  poor  lady  injustice,  and  if  I  had  been 
quicker-witted  (and  possibly  harder-hearted)  we  might 
have  become  sworn  allies.  She  judged  her  son  less  with  a 
mother's  tenderness  than  with  a  mother's  zeal,  and  foresaw 
the  world's  verdict — which  I  won't  anticipate!  She  per- 
ceived that  he  must  depend  upon  a  clever  wife  to  float  him 
into  success;  he  would  never  prosper  on  his  own  merits. 
She  did  me  the  honor  to  believe  me  socially  a  sufficiently 
buoyant  body  for  this  arduous  purpose,  and  must  have  felt 
it  a  thousand  pities  that  she  couldn't  directly  speak  her 
mind.  A  thousand  pities  indeed!  My  answer  would  have 
been  to  the  point,  and  would  have  saved  us  all  a  vast  deal  of 
pain.  Meanwhile,  trying  half  to  convince  and  half  to  en- 
tangle me,  she  did  everything  to  hasten  our  marriage. 

If  there  had  been  anything  less  than  the  happiness  of  a 
lifetime  at  stake,  I  think  I  should  have  felt  that  I  owed 
Harold  a  sort  of  reparation  for  thinking  him  too  great  a 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  71 

man,  and  should  still  have  offered  him  an  affection  none  the 
less  genuine  for  being  transposed  into  a  minor  key.  But 
it  was  hard  for  a  girl  who  had  dreamed  blissfully  of  a! 
grandly  sentimental  union,  to  find  herself  suddenly  face  to 
face  with  a  sternly  rational  one.  When,  therefore,  Harold 
mentioned  a  certain  day  as  the  latest  for  which  he  thought 
it  proper  to  wait,  I  found  it  impossible  to  assent,  and  asked 
for  another  month's  delay.  What  I  wished  to  wait  for  I 
could  hardly  have  told.  Possibly  for  the  first  glow  of  illu- 
sion to  return ;  possibly  for  the  last  uneasy  throb  which  told 
that  illusion  was  ebbing  away.  Harold  received  this  request 
very  gravely,  and  inquired  whether  I  doubted  of  his  affec- 
tion. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  believe  it's  greater  than  I  deserve." 

"Why  then,"  he  asked,  "should  you  wait?" 

"Suppose  I  were  to  doubt  of  my  own?" 

He  looked  as  if  I  had  said  something  in  very  bad  taste, 
and  I  was  almost  frightened  at  his  sense  of  security.  But 
he  at  last  consented  to  the  delay.  Perhaps  on  reflection  he 
was  alarmed,  for  the  grave  politeness  with  which  he  dis- 
charged his  attentions  took  a  still  more  formal  turn,  as  if 
to  remind  me  at  every  hour  of  the  day  that  his  was  not  a 
sentiment  to  be  trifled  with.  To  trifle,  Heaven  knows, 
was  far  enough  from  my  thoughts;  for  I  was  fast  losing 
my  spirits,  and  I  woke  up  one  morning  with  the  conviction 
that  I  was  decidedly  not  happy. 

We  were  to  be  married  in  Paris,  where  Harold  had  de- 
termined to  spend  six  months  in  order  that  he  might  try 
his  fortune  again  in  the  studio  of  a  painter  whom  he  espe- 
cially esteemed — a  certain  Monsieur  Martinet,  an  old  man, 
and  belonging,  I  believe,  to  a  rather  antiquated  school  of 
art.  During  our  first  days  in  Paris  I  went  with  Harold  a 
great  deal  to  the  Louvre,  where  he  was  a  very  profitable 
companion.  He  had  the  history  of  the  schools  at  his  fingers' 
ends,  and,  as  the  phrase  is,  he  knew  what  he  liked.  We 
had  a  fatal  habit  of  not  liking  the  same  things;  but  I  pre- 
tended to  no  critical  insight,  and  desired  nothing  better  than 
to  agree  with  him.  I  listened  devoutly  to  everything  that 
could  be  said  for  Guido  and  Caravaggio.  One  day  we  were 


72  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

standing  before  the  inscrutable  "Joconde"  of  Leonardo,  a 
picture  disagreeable  to  most  women.  I  had  been  expressing 
my  great  aversion  to  the  lady's  countenance,  which  Harold 
on  this  occasion  seemed  to  share.  I  was  surprised  therefore, 
when,  after  a  pause,  he  said  quietly,  "I  believe  I'll  copy 
her." 

I  hardly  knew  why  I  should  have  smiled,  but  I  did,  ap- 
parently to  his  annoyance.  "She  must  be  very  difficult,"  I 
said.  "Try  something  easier." 

"I  want  something  difficult,"  he  answered  sternly. 

"Truly?"  I  said.    "You  mean  what  you  say?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  then  copy  a  portrait  when  you  can  copy  an  origi- 
nal?" " 

"What  original?" 

"Your  betrothed!  Paint  my  portrait.  I  promise  to  be 
difficult  enough.  Indeed,  I'm  surprised  you  should  never 
have  proposed  it."  In  fact  the  idea  had  just  occurred  to 
me;  but  I  embraced  it  with  a  sort  of  relief.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  it  would  somehow  test  my  lover,  and  that  if  he  suc- 
ceeded, I  might  believe  in  him  irremissibly.  He  stared  a 
moment  as  if  he  had  hardly  understood  me,  and  I  completed 
my  thought.  "Paint  my  portrait,  and  the  day  you  finish 
it  I'll  fix  our  wedding  day." 

The  proposal  was  after  all  not  very  terrible,  and  before 
long  he  seemed  to  relish  it.  The  next  day  he  told  me  that 
he  had  composed  his  figure  mentally,  and  that  we  might 
begin  immediately.  Circumstances  favored  us,  for  he  had 
for  the  time  undisturbed  all  of  M.  Martinet's  studio.  This 
gentleman  had  gone  into  the  country  to  paint  a  portrait, 
and  Harold  just  then  was  his  only  pupil.  Our  first  sitting 
took  place  without  delay.  At  his  request  I  brought  with  me 
a  number  of  draperies,  among  which  was  the  yellow  shawl 
you  have  just  been  admiring.  We  wore  such  things  then, 
just  as  we  played  on  the  harp  and  read  "Corinne."  1 
tried  on  my  scarfs  and  veils,  one  after  the  other,  but  Har- 
old was  satisfied  with  none.  The  yellow  shawl,  in  especial, 
he  pronounced  a  meretricious  ornament,  and  decided  that 
I  should  be  represented  in  a  plain  dark  dress,  with  as  few 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  73 

accessories  as  possible.    He  quoted  with  a  bow  the  verse 
about  beauty  when  unadorned,  and  began  his  work. 

After  the  first  day  or  two  it  progressed  slowly,  and  I  felt 
at  moments  as  if  I  had  saddled  him  with  a  cruel  burden. 
He  expressed  no  irritation,  but  he  often  looked  puzzle'd  and 
wearied,  and  sometimes  would  lay  aside  his  brushes,  fold 
his  arms,  and  stand  gazing  at  his  work  with  a  sort  of  vacant 
scowl  which  tried  my  patience.  "Frown  at  me,"  I  said 
more  than  once;  "don't  frown  at  that  blameless  sheet  of  can- 
vas. Don't  spare  me,  though  I  confess  it's  not  my  fault  if 
I'm  hard  to  paint."  Thus  admonished,  he  would  turn  to- 
ward me  without  smiling,  often  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  and  would  walk  slowly  round  the  room,  examining  me 
at  a  distance.  Then  coming  back  to  his  easel,  he  would 
make  half  a  dozen  strokes  and  pause  again,  as  if  his  impetus 
had  already  expired.  For  some  time  I  was  miserable;  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  been  wonderfully  wise  to  withhold 
my  hand  till  the  picture  was  finished.  He  begged  I  would 
not  look  at  it,  but  I  knew  it  was  standing  still.  At  last,  one 
morning,  after  gazing  at  his  work  for  some  time  in  silence, 
he  laid  down  his  palette  gravely,  but  with  no  further  sign 
of  discomposure  than  that  he  gently  wiped  his  forehead 
with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  "You  make  me  nervous," 
he  suddenly  declared. 

I  fancied  there  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  and  I  began  to 
pity  him.  I  left  my  place  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  arrn. 
"If  it  wearies  you,"  I  said,  "give  it  up." 

He  turned  away  and  for  some  time  made  no  answer.  I 
knew  what  he  was  thinking  about,  and  I  suppose  he  knew 
that  I  knew  it,  and  was  hesitating  to  ask  me  seriously 
whether  in  giving  up  his  picture  he  gave  up  something  more. 
He  decided  apparently  to  give  up  nothing,  but  grasped  his 
palette,  and,  with  the  short  incisive  gesture  habitual  to  him, 
motioned  me  back  to  my  seat.  "I'll  bother  no  longer  over 
the  drawing,"  he  said;  "I'll  begin  to  paint."  With  his  colors 
he  was  more  prosperous,  for  the  next  day  he  told  me  that 
we  were  progressing  fast. 

We  generally  went  together  to  the  studio,  but  it  hap- 
pened one  day  that  he  was  to  be  occupied  during  the  early 


74  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

morning  at  the  other  end  of  Paris,  and  he  arranged  to  meet 
me  there.  I  was  punctual,  but  he  had  not  arrived,  and  I 
found  myself  face  to  face  with  my  reluctant  image.  Oppor- 
tunity served  too  well,  and  I  looked  at  it  in  spite  of  his 
prohibition,  meaning  of  course  to  confess  my  fault.  It 
brought  me  less  pleasure  than  faults  are  reputed  to  bring. 
The  picture,  as  yet  very  slight  and  crude,  was  unpromising 
and  unflattering.  I  chiefly  distinguished  a  long  white  face 
with  staring  black  eyes,  and  a  terribly  angular  pair  of  arms. 
Was  it  in  this  unlovely  form  that  I  had  impressed  myself 
on  Harold's  vision?  Absorbed  by  the  question,  it  was  some 
moments  before  I  perceived  that  I  was  not  alone.  I  heard 
a  sound,  looked  round,  and  discovered  a  stranger,  a  young 
man,  gazing  over  my  shoulder  at  Harold's  canvas.  His 
gaze  was  intense  and  not  expressive  of  pleasure,  and  some 
moments  passed  before  he  perceived  that  I  had  noticed  him. 
He  reminded  me  strongly  of  certain  dishevelled  copyists 
whom  I  had  seen  at  work  in  the  Louvre,  and  as  I  supposed 
he  had  some  lawful  errand  in  the  studio,  I  contented  myself 
with  thinking  that  he  hadn't  the  best  manners  in  the  world, 
and  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  At  last,  as  he 
continued  to  betray  no  definite  intentions,  I  ventured  to 
look  at  him  again.  He  was  young — twenty-five  at  most — 
and  excessively  shabby.  I  remember,  among  other  details, 
that  he  had  a  black  cravat  wound  two  or  three  times  round 
his  neck,  without  any  visible  linen.  He  was  short,  thin,  pale 
and  hungry-looking.  As  I  turned  toward  him,  he  passed  his 
hand  through  his  hair,  as  if  to  do  what  he  could  to  make 
himself  presentable,  and  called  my  attention  to  his  prodi- 
gious shock  of  thick  black  curls —  a  real  coiffure  de  rapin. 
His  face  would  have  been  meagre  and  vulgar,  if  from  be- 
neath their  umbrageous  locks  there  had  not  glanced  an  ex- 
traordinary pair  of  eyes — eyes  really  of  fire.  They  were  not 
tender  nor  appealing,  but  they  glittered  with  a  sort  of 
feverish  intelligence  and  penetration,  and  stamped  their 
possessor  not,  as  the  French  say,  the  first  comer.  He 
almost  glared  at  me  and  stopped  my  words  short. 

"That's  your  portrait?"  he  asked,  with  a  toss  of  his  head. 

I  assented  with  dignity. 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  75 

"It's  bad,  bad,  bad!"  he  cried.  "Excuse  my  frankness, 
but  it's  really  too  bad.  It's  a  waste  of  colors,  of  money,  of 
time." 

His  frankness  certainly  was  extreme;  but  his  words  had 
an  accent  of  ardent  conviction  which  doesn't  belong  to  com- 
monplace impertinence.  "I  don't  know  who  you  are,  that 
I  should  value  your  opinion,"  I  said. 

"Who  I  am?  I'm  an  artist,  mademoiselle.  If  I  had 
money  to  buy  visiting-cards,  I  would  present  you  with  one. 
But  I  haven't  even  money  to  buy  colors — hardly  to  buy 
bread.  I've  talent — I've  imagination — too  much! — I've 
ideas — I've  promise — I've  a  future;  and  yet  the  machine 
won't  work — for  want  of  fuel!  I  have  to  roam  about  with 
my  hands  in  my  pockets — to  keep  them  warm — for  want  of 
the  very  tools  of  my  trade.  I've  been  a  fool — an  ignoble 
fool;  I've  thrown  precious  hours  to  the  dogs  and  made 
enemies  of  precious  friends.  Six  months  ago  I  quarreled 
with  the  pere  Martinet,  who  believed  in  me  and  would  have 
been  glad  to  keep  me.  II  jaut  que  jeunesse  se  passe!  Mine 
has  passed  at  a  rattling  pace,  ill-mounted  though  it  was; 
we  have  parted  company  forever.  Now  I  only  ask  to  do  a 
man's  work  with  a  man's  will.  Meanwhile  the  pere  Marti- 
net, justly  provoked,  has  used  his  tongue  so  well  that  not 
a  colorman  in  Paris  will  trust  me.  There's  a  situation! 
And  yet  what  could  I  do  with  ten  francs'  worth  of  paint? 
I  want  a  room  and  light  and  a  model,  and  a  dozen  yards 
of  satin  tumbling  about  her  feet.  Bah!  I  shall  have  to 
want!  There  are  things  I  want  more.  Behold  the  force  of 
circumstances.  I've  come  back  with  my  pride  in  my  pocket 
to  make  it  up  with  the  venerable  author  of  the  'Apotheosis 
of  Moliere,'  and  ask  him  to  lend  me  a  louis." 

I  arrested  this  vehement  effusion  by  informing  him  that 
M.  Martinet  was  out  of  town,  and  that  for  the  present 
the  studio  was — private.  But  he  seemed  too  much  irritated 
to  take  my  hint.  "That's  not  his  work?"  he  went  on,  turn- 
ing to  the  portrait.  "Martinet  is  bad,  but  is  not  as  bad 
as  that.  Quel  genre!  You  deserve,  mademoiselle,  to  be 
better  treated;  you're  an  excellent  model.  Excuse  me,  once 
for  all ;  I  know  I'm  atrociously  impudent.  But  I'm  an  artist, 


76  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

and  I  find  it  pitiful  to  see  a  fine  great  canvas  besmeared  in 
such  a  fashion  as  that!  There  ought  to  be  a  society  for  the 
protection  of  such  things." 

I  was  at  loss  what  to  reply  to  this  extraordinary  explo- 
sion of  contempt.  Strange  to  say — it's  the  literal  truth — 
I  was  neither  annoyed  nor  disgusted;  I  simply  felt  myself 
growing  extremely  curious.  This  impudent  little  Bohemian 
was  forcing  me  somehow  to  respect  his  opinion;  he  spoke 
with  penetratng  authority.  Don't  say  that  I  was  willing 
to  be  convinced;  if  you  had  been  there,  you  would  have 
let  him  speak.  It  would  have  been,  of  course,  the  part 
of  propriety  to  request  him  in  a  chilling  voice  to  leave 
the  room,  or  to  ring  for  the  concierge,  or  to  flee  in  horror. 
I  did  none  of  these  things:  I  went  back  to  the  picture,  and 
tried  hard  to  see  something  in  it  which  would  make  me 
passionately  contradict  him.  But  it  seemed  to  exhale  a 
mortal  chill,  and  all  I  could  say  was:  "Bad — bad?  How 
bad?" 

"Ridiculously  bad;  impossibly  bad!  You're  an  angel  of 
charity,  mademoiselle,  not  to  see  it!" 

"Is  it  weak — cold — ignorant?" 

"Weak,  cold,  ignorant,  stiff,  empty,  hopeless!  And,  on 
top  of  all,  pretentious — oh,  pretentious  as  the  facade  of  the 
Madeleine!" 

I  endeavored  to  force  a  skeptical  smile.  "After  all, 
monsieur,  I'm  not  bound  to  believe  you." 

"Evidently!"  And  he  rubbed  his  forehead  and  looked 
gloomily  round  the  room.  "But  one  thing  I  can  tell  you" 
— fixing  me  suddenly  with  his  extraordinary  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  expand  and  glow  with  the  vividness  of  prevision 
— "the  day  will  come  when  people  will  fight  for  the  honor 
of  having  believed  me,  and  of  having  been  the  first.  'I 
discovered  him — I  always  said  so.  But  for  me  you'd  have 
let  the  poor  devil  starve!'  You'll  hear  the  chorus!  So 
now's  your  chance,  mademoiselle!  Here  I  stand,  a  man  of 
genius  if  there  ever  was  one,  without  a  sou,  without  a 
friend,  without  a  ray  of  reputation.  Believe  in  me  now, 
and  you'll  be  the  first,  by  many  a  day.  You'd  find  it 
easier,  you'll  say,  if  I  had  a  little  more  modesty.  I  assure 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  77 

you  I  don't  go  about  blowing  my  trumpet  in  this  fashion 
every  day.  This  morning  I'm  in  a  kind  of  fever,  and 
I've  reached  a  crisis.  I  must  do  something — even  make 
an  ass  of  myself!  I  can't  go  on  devouring  my  own  heart. 
You  see  for  these  three  months  I've  been  a  sec.  I  haven't 
dined  every  day.  Perhaps  a  sinking  at  the  stomach  is  pro- 
pitious to  inspiration:  certainly,  week  by  week,  my  brain 
has  grown  clearer,  my  imagination  more  restless,  my  de- 
sires more  boundless,  my  visions  more  splendid!  Within 
the  last  fortnight  my  last  doubt  has  vanished,  and  I  feel 
as  strong  as  the  sun  in  heaven!  I  roam  about  the  streets 
and  lounge  in  the  public  gardens  for  want  of  a  better  refuge, 
and  everything  I  look  at — the  very  sunshine  in  the  gutter, 
the  chimney-pots  against  the  sky — seems  a  picture,  a  sub- 
ject, an  opportunity!  I  hang  over  the  balustrade  that  runs 
before  the  pictures  at  the  Louvre,  and  Titian  and  Correggio 
seem  to  turn  pale,  like  people  when  you've  guessed  their 
secret.  I  don't  know  who  the  author  of  this  masterpiece 
may  be,  but  I  fancy  he  would  have  more  talent  if  he  weren't 
so  sure  of  his  dinner.  Do  you  know  how  I  learned  to  look 
at  things  and  use  my  eyes?  By  staring  at  the  char  cutler's, 
windows  when  my  pockets  were  empty.  It's  a  great  lesson 
to  learn  even  the  shape  of  a  sausage  and  the  color  of  a 
ham.  This  gentleman,  it's  easy  to  see,  hasn't  noticed  such 
matters.  He  goes  by  the  sense  of  taste.  Voila  le  monde! 
I — I — I — " — and  he  slapped  his  forehead  with  a  kind  of 
dramatic  fury — "here  as  you  see  me — ragged,  helpless,  hope- 
less, with  my  soul  aching  with  ambition  and  my  fingers 
itching  for  a  brush — and  he,  standing  up  here  after  a  good 
breakfast,  in  this  perfect  light,  among  pictures  and  tapes- 
tries and  carvings,  with  you  in  your  blooming  beauty  for 
a  model,  and  painting  that — sign-board.'* 

His  violence  was  startling;  I  didn't  know  what  might 
come  next,  and  I  took  up  my  bonnet  and  mantle.  He 
immediately  protested  with  ardor.  "A  moment's  reflection, 
mademoiselle,  will  tell  you  that,  with  the  appearance  I  pre- 
sent, I  don't  talk  about  your  beauty  pour  vous  faire  la 
cour.  I  repeat  with  all  respect,  you're  a  model  to  make 
a  painter's  fortune.  I  doubt  if  you've  many  attitudes  or 


78  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

much  flexibility;  but  for  once — the  portrait  of  Mile.  X. — 
you're  perfect." 

"I'm  obliged  to  you  for  your — information,"  I  answered 
gravely.  "You  see  my  artist  is  chosen.  I  expect  him  here 
at  any  moment,  and  I  won't  answer  for  his  listening  to  you 
as  patiently  as  I  have  done." 

"He's  coming?"  cried  -my  visitor.  "Quelle  chance!  I 
shall  be  charmed  to  meet  him.  I  shall  vastly  enjoy  seeing 
the  human  head  from  which  that  conception  issued.  I  see 
him  already:  I  construct  the  author  from  the  work.  He's 
tall  and  blond,  with  eyes  very  much  the  color  of  his  own 
china-blue  there.  He  wears  straw-colored  whiskers,  and 
doubtless  he  paints  in  straw-colored  gloves.  In  short,  he's 
un  homme  magnifique!" 

This  was  'sarcasm  run  mad;  but  I  listened  to  it  and 
resented  it  as  little  as  I  enjoyed  it.  My  companion  seemed 
to  possess  a  sort  of  demonic  veracity  of  which  the  influence 
was  irresistible.  I  questioned  his  sincerity  so  little  that,  if 
I  offered  him  charity,  it  was  with  no  intention  of  testing  it. 
"I  dare  say  you've  immense  talent,"  I  said,  "but  you've 
horrible  manners.  Nevertheless,  I  believe  you  will  perceive 
that  there  is  no  reason  why  our  conversation  should  con- 
tinue; and  I  should  pay  you  a  poor  compliment  in  thinking 
that  you  need  to  be  bribed  to  withdraw.  But  since  M. 
Martinet  isn't  here  to  lend  you  a  louis,  let  me  act  for  him." 
And  I  laid  the  piece  of  gold  on  the  table. 

He  looked  at  it  hard  for  a  moment  and  then  at  me,  and 
I  wondered  whether  he  thought  the  gift  too  meagre.  "I 
won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  I'm  proud,"  he  answered  at 
last.  "But  from  a  lady,  ma  joi!  it's  beggarly — it's  humil- 
iating. Excuse  me  then  if  I  refuse;  I  mean  to  ask  for 
something  else.  To  do  me  justice,  remember  that  I  speak 
to  you  not  as  a  man,  but  as  an  artist.  Bestow  your  charity 
on  the  artist,  and  if  it  costs  you  an  effort,  remember  that 
that  is  the  charity  which  is  of  most  account  with  heaven. 
Keep  your  louis;  go  and  stand  as  you've  been  standing  for 
this  picture,  in  the  same  light  and  the  same  attitude,  and 
then  let  me  look  at  you  for  three  little  minutes."  As  he 
spoke  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  ragged  note-book  and  the 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  79 

stump  of  a  pencil.  "The  few  scrawls  I  shall  make  here 
will  be  your  alms." 

He  spoke  of  effort,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  I  made  little  to 
comply.  While  I  resumed  my  familiar  attitude  in  front  of 
Harold's  canvas,  he  walked  rapidly  across  the  room  and 
stooped  over  a  chair  upon  which  a  mass  of  draperies  had 
been  carelessly  tossed.  In  a  moment  I  saw  what  had  at- 
tracted him.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  famous  yellow 
scarf,  glowing  splendidly  beneath  a  pile  of  darker  stuffs. 
He  pulled  out  the  beautiful  golden-hued  tissue  with  furious 
alacrity,  held  it  up  before  him  and  broke  into  an  ecstasy  of 
admiration.  "What  a  tone — what  a  glow — what  a  texture! 
In  Heaven's  name,  put  it  on!"  And  without  further  cere- 
mony he  tossed  it  over  my  shoulders.  I  need  hardly  tell 
you  that  I  obeyed  but  a  natural  instinct  in  gathering  it  into 
picturesque  folds.  He  rushed  away,  and  stood  gazing  and 
clapping  his  hands.  "The  harmony  is  perfect — the  effect 
sublime!  You  possess  that  thing  and  you  bury  it  out  of 
sight?  Wear  it,  wear  it,  I  entreat  you — and  your  portrait 
— but  ah!"  and  he  glared  angrily  askance  at  the  picture: 
"you'll  never  wear  it  there!" 

"We  thought  of  using  it,  but  it  was  given  up." 

"Given  up?  Quelle  horreur!  He  hadn't  the  pluck  to 
attack  it!  Oh,  if  I  could  just  take  a  brush  at  it  and  rub 
it  in  for  him!"  And,  as  if  possessed  by  an  uncontrollable 
impulse,  he  seized  poor  Harold's  palette.  But  I  made  haste 
to  stop  his  hand.  He  flung  down  the  brushes,  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  pressed  back,  I  could  fancy,  the  tears 
of  baffled  eagerness.  "You'll  think  me  crazy!"  he  cried. 

He  was  not  crazy,  to  my  sense;  but  he  was  a  raging, 
aimless  force,  which  I  suddenly  comprehended  that  I  might 
use.  I  seemed  to  measure  the  full  proportions  of  Harold's 
inefficiency,  and  to  foresee  the  pitiful  result  of  his  under- 
taking. He  wouldn't  succumb,  but  he  would  doggedly 
finish  his  task  and  present  me,  in  evidence  of  his  claim, 
with  a  dreadful  monument  of  his  pretentious  incapacity. 
Twenty  strokes  from  this  master-hand  would  make  a  dif- 
ference; ten  minutes'  work  would  carry  the  picture  for- 
ward. I  thrust  the  palette  into  the  young  man's  grasp 


8o  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

again  and  looked  at  him  solemnly.  "Paint  away  for  your 
life,"  I  said;  "but  promise  me  this:  to  succeed!" 

He  waved  his  hand  in  the  air,  despatched  me  with  a 
glance  to  my  place,  and  let  himself  loose  on  the  canvas; 
there  are  no  other  words  for  his  tremulous  eagerness.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  passed  in  silence.  As  I  watched  his 
motions  grow  every  moment  broader  and  more  sweeping, 
I  could  fancy  myself  listening  to  some  ardent  pianist,  plung- 
ing deeper  into  a  passionate  symphony  and  devouring  the 
key-board  with  outstretched  arms.  Flushed  and  dishevelled, 
consuming  me  almost  with  his  ardent  stare,  daubing, 
murmuring,  panting,  he  seemed  indeed  to  be  painting  for 
life. 

At  last  I  heard  a  tread  in  the  vestibule.  I  knew  it  was 
Harold's,  and  I  hurried  to  look  at  the  picture.  How  would 
he  take  it?  I  confess  I  was  prepared  for  the  worst.  The  pic- 
ture spoke  for  itself.  Harold's  work  had  disappeared  with 
magical  rapidity,  and  even  my  unskilled  eye  perceived  that 
a  graceful  and  expressive  figure  had  been  powerfully 
sketched  in.  As  Harold  appeared,  I  turned  to  meet  him. 
He  seemed  surprised  at  not  finding  me  alone,  and  I  laid 
my  finger  gravely  on  my  lips  and  led  him  to  the  front  of 
the  canvas.  The  position  of  things  was  so  singular  that 
for  some  moments  it  baffled  his  comprehension.  My  com- 
panion finished  what  he  was  immediately  concerned  with; 
then  with  an  obsequious  bow  laid  down  his  brushes.  "It 
was  a  loan,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "I  return  it  with  interest." 
Harold  flushed  to  his  eyes,  and  sat  down  in  silence.  I  had 
expected  him  to  be  irritated;  but  this  was  more  than 
irritation.  At  last:  "Explain  this  extraordinary  per- 
formance," he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

I  felt  pain,  and  yet  somehow  I  felt  no  regret.  The  situa- 
tion was  tense,  as  the  phrase  is,  and  yet  I  almost  relished 
it.  "This  gentleman  is  a  great  artist,"  I  said  boldly. 
"Look  for  yourself.  Your  picture  was  lost;  he  has  redeemed 
it." 

Harold  looked  at  the  intruder  slowly  from  head  to  foot. 
"Who  is  this  person?"  he  demanded,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  me. 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  81 

The  young  man  understood  no  English,  but  he  apparently 
guessed  at  the  question.  "My  name  is  Pierre  Briseux;  let 
that"  (pointing  to  his  work)  "denote  my  profession.  If 
you're  affronted,  monsieur,  don't  visit  your  displeasure  on 
mademoiselle;  I  alone  am  responsible.  You  had  got  into 
a  tight  place;  I  wished  to  help  you  out  of  it;  sympathie  de 
conjr&re!  I've  done  you  no  injury.  I've  made  you  a 
present  of  half  a  masterpiece.  If  I  could  only  trust  you  not 
to  spoil  it!" 

Harold's  face  betrayed  his  invincible  disgust,  and  I  saw 
that  my  offence  was  mortal.  He  had  been  wounded  in  his 
tenderest  part,  and  his  self-control  was  rapidly  ebbing.  His 
lips  trembled,  but  he  was  too  angry  even  to  speak.  Sud- 
denly he  seized  a  heavy  brush  which  stood  in  a  pot  of  dusky 
varnish,  and  I  thought  for  a  moment  he  was  going  to  fling 
it  at  Briseux.  He  balanced  it  an  instant,  and  then  tossed 
it  full  in  the  face  of  the  picture.  I  raised  my  hands  to 
my  face  as  if  I  felt  the  blow.  Briseux,  at  least,  felt  it 
sorely. 

"Malheureux!"  he  cried.  "Are  you  blind  as  well?  Don't 
you  know  a  good  thing  when  you  see  it?  That's  what  I 
call  a  waste  of  material.  Allans,  you're  very  angry;  let 
me  explain.  In  meddling  with  your  picture  I  certainly 
took  a  great  liberty.  My  misery  is  my  excuse.  You  have 
money,  materials,  models — everything  but  talent.  No,  no, 
you're  no  painter;  it's  impossible!  There  isn't  an  intel- 
ligent line  on  your  canvas.  I,  on  the  other  hand,  am  a 
born  painter.  I've  talent  and  nothing  more.  I  came  here 
to  see  M.  Martinet;  learning  he  was  absent,  I  staid  for 
very  envy!  I  looked  at  your  work,  and  found  it  a  botch; 
at  your  empty  stool  and  idle  palette,  and  found  them  an 
immense  temptation;  at  mademoiselle,  and  found  her  a 
perfect  model.  I  persuaded,  frightened,  convinced  her,  and 
out  of  charity  she  gave  me  a  five  minutes'  sitting.  Once 
the  brush  in  my  hand,  I  felt  the  divine  afflatus;  I  hoped  for 
a  miracle — that  you'd  never  come  back,  that  you'd  be  run 
over  in  the  street,  or  have  an  attack  of  apoplexy.  If  you 
had  only  let  me  go  on,  I  should  have  served  you  up  a  great 
work,  monsieur — a  work  to  which,  in  spite  of  your  natural 


82  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

irritation,  you  wouldn't  have  dared  to  do  a  violence.  You'd 
have  been  afraid  of  it.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  meant 
to  paint.  If  you  could  only  believe  me,  you'd  not  regret 
it.  Give  me  a  start,  and  ten  years  hence  I  shall  see  you 
buying  my  pictures,  and  not  thinking  them  dear.  Oh,  I 
thought  I  had  my  foot  in  the  stirrup;  I  dreamed  I  was 
in  the  saddle  and  riding  hard.  But  I've  turned  a  somer- 
sault!" 

I  doubt  that  Harold,  in  his  resentment,  either  understood 
M.  Briseux's  words  or  appreciated  his  sketch.  He  simply 
felt  that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  a  monstrous  aggression, 
in  which  I,  in  some  painfully  inexplicable  way,  had  been 
half  dupe  and  half  accomplice.  I  was  watching  his  anger 
and  weighing  its  ominous  significance.  His  cold  fury,  and 
the  expression  it  threw  into  his  face  and  gestures,  told  me 
more  about  him  than  weeks  of  placid  love-making  had 
done,  and,  following  close  upon  my  vivid  sense  of  his  in- 
capacity, seemed  suddenly  to  cut  the  knot  that  bound  us 
together,  and  over  which  my  timid  fingers  had  been  fum- 
bling. "Put  on  your  bonnet,"  he  said  to  me;  "get  a  car- 
riage and  go  home." 

I  can't  describe  his  tone.  It  contained  an  assumption 
of  my  confusion  and  compliance,  which  made  me  feel  that 
I  ought  to  lose  no  time  in  undeceiving  him.  Nevertheless 
I  felt  cruelly  perplexed,  and  almost  afraid  of  his  displeas- 
ure. Mechanically  I  took  up  my  bonnet.  As  I  held  it 
in  my  hand,  my  eyes  met  those  of  our  terrible  companion, 
who  was  evidently  trying  to  read  the  riddle  of  my  relations 
with  Harold.  Planted  there  with  his  trembling  lips,  his 
glittering,  searching  eyes,  an  indefinable  something  in  his 
whole  person  that  told  of  joyous  impulse  arrested,  but 
pausing  only  for  a  more  triumphant  effort,  he  seemed  a 
strangely  eloquent  embodiment  of  youthful  genius.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  read  in  my  glance  a  ray  of  sympathy,  but 
his  lips  formed  a  soundless  "Restez,  madame"  which 
quickened  the  beating  of  my  heart.  The  feeling  that  then 
invaded  it  I  despair  of  making  you  understand;  yet  it  must 
help  in  your  eyes  to  excuse  me,  and  it  was  so  profound 
that  often  in  memory  it  seems  more  real  and  poignant  than 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  83 

the  things  of  the  present.  Poor  little  Briseux,  ugly,  shabby, 
disreputable,  seemed  to  me  some  appealing  messenger  from 
the  mysterious  immensity  of  life;  and  Harold,  beside  him, 
comely,  elegant,  imposing,  justly  indignant,  seemed  to  me 
simply  his  narrow,  personal,  ineffectual  self.  This  was  a 
wider  generalization  than  the  feminine  heart  is  used  to.  I 
flung  my  bonnet  on  the  floor  and  burst  into  tears. 

"This  is  not  an  exhibition  for  a  stranger,"  said  Harold 
grimly.  "Be  so  good  as  to  follow  me." 

"You  must  excuse  me;  I  can't  follow  you;  I  can't  ex- 
plain. I  have  something  more  to  say  to  M.  Briseux.  He's 
less  of  a  stranger  than  you  think." 

"I'm  to  leave  you  here?"  stammered  Harold. 

"It's  the  simplest  way." 

"With  that  dirty  little  Frenchman?" 

"What  should  I  care  for  his  being  clean?  It's  his  genius 
that  interests  me." 

Harold  stared  in  dark  amazement.  "Art  you  insane? 
Do  you  know  what  you're  doing?" 

"An  act,  I  believe,  of  real  charity." 

"Charity  begins  at  home.  It's  an  act  of  desperate  folly. 
Must  I  command  you  to  leave?" 

"You've  done  that  already.  I  can't  obey  you.  If  I  were 
to  do  so,  I  should  pretend  what  isn't  true;  and,  let  me  say 
it,  it's  to  undeceive  you  that  I  refuse." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  cried  Harold,  "nor  to  what 
spell  this  meddlesome  little  beggar  has  subjected  you! 
But  I'm  not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with,  you  know,  and  this 
is  my  last  request;  my  last,  do  you  understand?  If  you 
prefer  the  society  of  this  abandoned  person,  you're  wel- 
come, but  you  forfeit  mine  forever.  It's  a  choice!  You 
give  up  the  man  who  has  offered  you  an  honorable  affection, 
a  name,  a  fortune,  who  has  trusted  and  cherished  you,  who 
stands  ready  to  make  you  a  devoted  husband.  What  you 
get  the  Lord  knows!" 

I  had  sunk  into  a  chair.  I  listened  in  silence,  and  for 
some  time  answered  nothing.  His  words  were  vividly  true. 
He  offered  me  much,  and  I  gave  up  everything.  He  had 
played  an  honorable  part,  and  I  was  playing  a  very 


84  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

strange  one.  I  asked  myself  sternly  whether  I  was  ready 
to  rise  and  take  his  arm  and  let  him  lead  me  blindfold 
through  life.  When  I  raised  my  eyes  Briseux  stood  before 
me,  and  from  the  expression  of  his  face  I  could  have  fan- 
cied he  had  guessed  at  the  meaning  of  Harold's  words.  "I'll 
make  you  immortal,"  he  murmured;  "I'll  delight  man- 
kind— and  I'll  begin  my  own  career!" 

An  ineffable  prevision  of  the  truth  which  after  the 
lapse  of  years  has  brought  about  our  meeting  here  seemed 
to  raise  me  as  if  on  wings,  and  made  decision  easy.  We 
women  are  so  habitually  condemned  by  fate  to  act  simply 
in  what  is  called  the  domestic  sphere,  that  there  is  some- 
thing intoxicating  in  the  opportunity  to  exert  a  far-reach- 
ing influence  outside  of  it.  To  feel  the  charms  of  such  an 
opportunity,  one  must  perhaps  be  of  a  reprehensibly  fanci- 
ful turn.  Such  at  any  rate  was  my  mood  for  that  hour. 
I  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  an  electric  chain,  of  which  the 
rest  was  throbbing  away  through  time.  I  seemed  to  hold 
in  my  hand  an  immeasurable  gift.  "We  had  better  part  on 
the  spot,"  I  said  to  Harold.  "I've  foreseen  our  parting  for 
weeks,  only  it  has  come  more  abruptly.  Forgive  the  ab- 
ruptness. To  myself  the  pretext  seems  better  than  to  you; 
perhaps  some  day  you'll  appreciate  it.  A  single  question," 
I  added.  "Could  you  ever  have  finished  my  portrait?" 

He  looked  at  me  askance  for  some  moments,  with  a 
strange  mistrust,  as  if  I  had  suddenly  developed  some  mon- 
strous and  sinister  slyness;  then  catching  his  breath  with 
a  little  groan — almost  a  shudder — he  marched  out  of  the 
room. 

Briseux  clasped  his  hands  in  ecstasy.  "You're  magni- 
ficent!" he  cried.  "If  you  could  only  look  so  for  three 
hours!" 

"To  business,"  I  said  sternly.  "If  you  don't  paint  a 
perfect  picture,  you're  the  most  shameless  of  impostors." 

He  had  but  a  single  sitting,  but  it  was  a  long  one; 
though  how  many  hours  it  lasted,  I  doubt  that  either  of 
us  could  have  told.  He  painted  till  dusk,  and  then  we  had 
lamps.  Before  I  left  him  I  looked  at  the  picture  for  the 
last  and  only  time  before  seeing  it  to-day.  It  seemed  to 


THE  SWEETHEART  OF  M.  BRISEUX  85 

me  as  perfect  as  it  seemed  this  morning,  and  I  felt  that  my 
choice  was  justified  and  that  Briseux's  fortune  was  made. 
It  gave  me  all  the  strength  I  needed  for  the  immediate 
future.  He  was  evidently  of  the  same  opinion  and  pro- 
foundly absorbed  in  it.  When  I  bade  him  farewell,  in  very 
few  words,  he  answered  me  almost  absently.  I  had  served 
his  purpose  and  had  already  passed  into  that  dusky  limbo 
of  unhonored  victims,  the  experience — intellectual  and  other 
— of  genius.  I  left  him  the  yellow  shawl,  that  he  might 
finish  this  part  of  his  work  at  his  leisure,  and,  as  for  the 
picture,  I  told  him  to  keep  it,  for  that  I  should  have  little 
pleasure  in  seeing  it  again.  Then  he  stared  a  moment,  but 
the  next  he  was  painting  hard. 

I  had  the  next  morning  what  under  other  circumstances 
I  might  call  an  explanation  with  Mr.  Staines,  an  explanation 
in  which  I  explained  nothing  to  his  satisfaction  but  that 
he  had  been  hideously  wronged,  and  that  I  was  a  demon  of 
inconstancy.  He  wrapped  himself  in  an  icy  silence,  and, 
I  think,  expected  some  graceful  effusion  of  humility.  I  may 
not  have  been  humble,  but  I  was  considerate,  and  I  per- 
ceived, for  my  reward,  that  the  sore  point  with  him  was 
not  that  he  had  lost  me,  but  that  I  had  ventured  to  judge 
him.  Mrs.  Staines's  manner,  on  the  other  hand,  puzzled 
me,  so  strange  a  mixture  was  it  of  half-disguised  elation 
and  undisguised  sarcasm.  At  last  I  guessed  her  meaning. 
Harold,  after  all,  had  had  an  escape;  instead  of  being  the 
shrewd,  practical  girl  she  had  thought  me,  I  was  a  terribly 
romantic  one!  Perhaps  she  was  right;  I  was  romantic 
enough  to  make  no  further  claim  on  her  hospitality,  and 
with  as  little  delay  as  possible  I  returned  home.  A  month 
later  I  received  an  enclosure  of  half  a  dozen  cuttings  from 
newspapers,  scrawled  boldly  across  with  the  signature  of 
Pierre  Briseux.  The  Paris  salon  had  opened  and  the 
critics  had  spoken.  They  had  not  neglected  the  portrait 
of  Mademoiselle  X .  The  picture  was  an  immense  suc- 
cess, and  M.  Briseux  was  famous.  There  were  a  few  pro- 
testing voices,  but  it  was  evident  that  his  career  had  begun. 

For  Mademoiselle  X herself,  I  believe,  there  were  none 

but  compliments,  several  of  which  took  the  form  of  gallant 


86  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

conjecture  as  to  her  real  identity.     Mademoiselle  X 

was  an  assumed  name,  and  according  to  more  than  one  voice 
the  lady  was  an  imperious  Russian  princess  with  a  distate 
for  vulgar  publicity.  You  know  the  rest  of  M.  Briseux's 
history.  Since  then  he  has  painted  real  princesses  by  the 
dozen.  He  has  delighted  mankind  rarely.  As  for  his  hav- 
ing made  me  immortal,  I  feel  as  if  it  were  almost  true.  It 
must  be  an  eternity  since  the  thing  happened — so  very 
unreservedly  I've  described  it! 


PROFESSOR  FARGO 


THE  little  town  of  P is  off  the  railway,  and  reached 
by  a  coach  drive  of  twenty-five  miles,  which  the  primi- 
tive condition  of  the  road  makes  a  trial  to  the  flesh,  and  the 
dulness  of  the  landscape  a  weariness  to  the  spirit.  It  was 
therefore  not  balm  to  my  bruises,  physical  or  intellectual,  to 
find,  on  my  arrival,  that  the  gentleman  for  whose  sake  I 
had  undertaken  the  journey  had  just  posted  off  in  a  light 
buggy  for  a  three  days'  holiday.  After  venting  my  disap- 
pointment in  a  variety  of  profitless  expletives,  I  decided  that 
the  only  course  worthy  of  the  elastic  philosophy  of  a  com- 
mercial traveller  was  to  take  a  room  at  the  local  tavern  and 

await  his  return.    P was  obviously  not  an  exhilarating 

place  of  residence,  but  I  had  outweathered  darker  hours, 
and  I  reflected  that  having,  as  the  phrase  is,  a  bone  to  pick 
with  my  correspondent,  a  little  accumulated  irritation  would 
arm  me  for  the  combat.  Moreover,  I  had  been  rattling 
about  for  three  months  by  rail;  I  was  mortally  tired,  and 
the  prospect  of  spending  a  few  days  beyond  earshot  of  the 
steam  whistle  was  not  unwelcome.  A  certain  audible,  rural 
hush  seemed  to  hang  over  the  little  town,  and  there  was 
nothing  apparently  to  prevent  my  giving  it  the  whole  of  my 
attention.  I  lounged  awhile  in  the  tavern  porch,  but  my 
presence  seemed  only  to  deepen  the  spell  of  silence  on  that 
customary  group  of  jaundiced  ruminants  who  were  tilting 
their  chairs  hard  by.  I  measured  thrice,  in  its  length,  the 
dusty  plank  sidewalk  of  the  main  street,  counted  the  holly- 
hocks in  the  front  yards,  and  read  the  names  on  the  little 
glass  door  plates;  and  finally,  in  despair,  I  visited  the  ceme- 
tery. Although  we  were  at  the  end  of  September,  the  day 
was  hot,  and  this  youthful  institution  boasted  but  a  scanty 

87 


88  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

growth  of  funereal  umbrage.  No  weeping  willow,  no  dusky 
cypress  offered  a  friendly  shelter  to  the  meditative  visitor. 
The  yellow  grass  and  white  tombstones  glared  in  the  hot 
light,  and  though  I  felt  very  little  merrier  than  a  graveyard 
ghost,  I  staid  hardly  longer  than  one  who  should  have 
mistaken  his  hour.  But  I  am  fond  of  reading  country 
epitaphs,  and  I  promised  myself  to  come  back  when  the  sun 
was  lower.  On  my  way  back  to  the  inn  I  found  myself,  on 
a  lately  opened  cross  street,  face  to  face  with  the  town  hall, 
and  pausing  approached  its  threshold  with  hopes  of  enter- 
tainment scarcely  less  ardent  than  those  which,  during  a 
journey  abroad,  had  guided  my  steps  toward  some  old  civic 
palace  of  France  or  Italy.  There  was,  of  course,  no  liver- 
ied minion  to  check  my  advance,  and  I  made  my  way  un- 
challenged into  the  large,  bare  room  which  occupied  the 
body  of  the  edifice.  It  was  the  accustomed  theatre  of  town 
meetings,  caucuses,  and  other  solemn  services,  but  it  seemed 
just  now  to  have  been  claimed  for  profaner  uses.  An  itiner- 
ant lecturer,  of  a  boisterous  type,  was  unpacking  his  bud- 
get and  preparing  his  mise  en  scene.  This  seemed  to  con- 
sist simply  of  a  small  table  and  three  chairs  in  a  row,  and 
of  a  dingy  specimen  of  our  national  standard,  to  whose  awk- 
ward festoons,  suspended  against  the  blank  wall  at  the  rear 
of  the  platform,  the  orator  in  person  was  endeavoring  to 
impart  a  more  artistic  grace.  Another  personage  on  the 
floor  was  engaged  in  scrawling  the  date  of  the  performance, 
in  red  chalk,  upon  a  number  of  printed  handbills.  He 
silently  thrust  one  of  these  documents  at  me  as  I  passed,  and 
I  saw  with  some  elation  that  I  had  a  resource  for  my  eve- 
ning. The  latter  half  of  the  page  consisted  of  extracts  from 
village  newspapers,  setting  forth  the  merits  of  the  entertain- 
ments. The  headings  alone,  as  I  remember  them,  ran  some- 
what in  this  fashion: 

A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SPIRIT  WORLD. 
THE  HIGHER  MATHEMATICS  MADE  EASY  TO 

LADIES  AND  CHILDREN. 

A  NEW  REVELATION!     A  NEW  SCIENCE! 

GREAT  MORAL  AND  SCIENTIFIC  COMBINATION. 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  89 

PROFESSOR  FARGO,  THE  INFALLIBLE  WAKING  MEDIUM  AND 

MAGICIAN,  CLAIRVOYANT,  PROPHET,  AND  SEER! 

COLONEL  GIFFORD,  THE  FAMOUS  LIGHTNING  CALCULATOR 

AND  MATHEMATICAL  REFORMER! 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  program,  but  there  were 
a  great  many  incidental  fioriture  which  I  have  forgotten. 
By  the  time  I  had  mastered  them,  however,  for  the  occasion, 
the  individual  who  was  repairing  the  tattered  flag,  turned 
round,  perceived  me,  and  showed  me  a  countenance  which 
could  belong  only  to  an  "infallible  waking  medium."  It 
was  not,  indeed,  that  professor  Fargo  had  the  abstracted 
and  emaciated  aspect  which  tradition  attributes  to  prophets 
and  visionaries.  On  the  contrary,  the  fleshly  element  in  his 
composition  seemed,  superficially,  to  enjoy  a  luxurious 
preponderance  over  the  spiritual.  He  was  tall  and  corpu- 
lent, and  wore  an  air  of  aggressive  robustness.  A  mass  of 
reddish  hair  was  tossed  back  from  his  forehead  in  a  leonine 
fashion,  and  a  lustrous  auburn  beard  diffused  itself  com- 
placently over  an  expansive  but  by  no  means  immaculate 
shirt  front.  He  was  dressed  in  a  black  evening  suit,  of  a 
tarnished  elegance,  and  it  was  in  keeping  with  the  festal 
pattern  of  his  garments,  that  on  the  right  forefinger  of  a 
large,  fat  hand,  he  should  wear  an  immense  turquoise  ring. 
His  intimate  connection  with  the  conjuring  class  was 
stamped  upon  his  whole  person ;  but  to  a  superficial  glance 
he  might  have  seemed  a  representative  of  its  grosser  accom- 
plishments. You  could  have  fancied  him,  in  spangled  flesh- 
ings, looking  down  the  lion's  mouth,  or  cracking  the  ring- 
master's whip  at  the  circus,  while  Mile.  Josephine  jumped 
through  the  hoops.  It  was  his  eyes,  when  you  fairly  met 
them,  that  proved  him  an  artist  on  a  higher  line.  They 
were  eyes  which  had  peeped  into  stranger  places  than  even 
lions'  mouths.  Their  pretension,  I  know,  was  to  pierce 
the  veil  of  futurity;  but  if  this  was  founded,  I  could  only 
say  that  the  vision  of  Ezekiel  and  Jeremiah  was  but  another 
name  for  consummate  Yankee  shrewdness.  They  were,  in 
a  single  word,  the  most  impudent  pair  of  eyes  I  ever  beheld; 
and  it  was  the  especial  sign  of  their  impudence  that  they 


90  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

seemed  somehow  to  undertake  to  persuade  you  of  the  dis- 
interested benevolence.  Being  of  a  fine  reddish  brown  color, 
it  was  probable  that  several  young  women  that  evening 
would  pronounce  them  magnificent.  Perceiving,  apparently, 

that  I  had  not  the  rustic  physiognomy  of  a  citizen  of  P , 

Professor  Fargo  deemed  my  patronage  worth  securing.  He 
advanced  to  the  cope  of  the  platform  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  gave  me  a  familiar  nod. 

"Mind  you  come  to-night,  young  man!"  he  said,  jocosely 
imperious. 

"Very  likely  I  shall,"  I  answered.  "Anything  in  the 
world  to  help  me  through  an  evening  at  P ." 

"Oh,  you  won't  want  your  money  back,"  the  Professor  re- 
joined. "Mine  is  a  first-class  entertainment;  none  of  your 
shuffling  break-downs.  We  are  perfect,  my  friends  and  I, 
in  our  respective  parts.  If  you  are  fond  of  a  good,  stiff, 
intellectual  problem,  we'll  give  you  something  to  think 
about."  The  Professor  spoke  very  slowly  and  benignantly, 
and  his  full,  sonorous  voice  rolled  away  through  the  empty 
hall.  He  evidently  liked  to  hear  it  himself;  he  balanced 
himself  on  his  toes  and  surveyed  the  scene  of  his  impending 
exploits.  "I  don't  blow  my  own  trumpet,"  he  went  on; 
"I'm  a  modest  man;  you'll  see  for  yourself  what  I  can  do. 
But  I  should  like  to  direct  your  attention  to  my  friend 
the  Colonel.  He's  a  rare  old  gentleman  to  find  in  a  travel- 
ing show!  The  most  remarkable  old  gentleman,  perhaps, 
that  ever  addressed  a  promiscuous  audience.  You  needn't 
be  afraid  of  the  higher  mathematics;  it's  all  made  as  pretty 
as  a  game  of  billiards.  It's  his  own  daughter  does  the 
sums.  We  don't  put  her  down  in  the  bills,  for  motives  of 
delicacy;  but  I'll  tell  you  for  your  private  satisfaction  that 
she  is  an  exquisite  young  creature  of  seventeen." 

It  was  not  every  day  that  I  found  myself  in  familiar  con- 
versation with  a  prophet,  and  the  opportunity  for  obtaining 
a  glimpse  of  the  inner  mechanism  of  the  profession  was  too 
precious  to  be  neglected.  I  questioned  the  Professor  about 
his  travels,  his  expenses,  his  profits,  and  the  mingled 
emotions  of  the  itinerant  showman's  lot;  and  then,  taking 
the  bull  by  the  horns,  I  asked  him  whether,  between  our- 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  91 

selves,  an  accomplished  medium  had  not  to  be  also  a  tol- 
erable conjurer?  He  leaned  his  head  on  one  side  and 
stood  stroking  his  beard,  and  looking  at  me  between  lids 
shrewdly  half  closed.  Then  he  gave  a  little  dry  chuckle, 
which  expressed,  at  my  choice,  compassion  either  for  my 
disbelief  in  his  miracles  or  for  my  faith  in  his  urbanity. 

"I  confess  frankly,"  I  said,  "that  I'm  a  skeptic.  I  don't 
believe  in  messages  from  the  spirit  world.  I  don't  believe 
that  even  the  depressing  prospect  of  immortality  is  capable 
of  converting  people  who  talked  plain  sense  here  on  earth 
into  the  authors  of  the  inflated  platitudes  which  people  of 
your  profession  pretend  to  transmit  from  them.  I  don't 
believe  people  who  have  expressed  themselves  for  a  life- 
time in  excellent  English  can  ever  be  content  with  conver- 
sation by  raps  on  the  dinner  table.  I  don't  believe  that;  you 
know  anything  more  about  the  future  world  than  you  do 
about  the  penal  code  of  China.  My  impression  is  that  you 
don't  believe  so  yourself.  I  can  hardly  expect  you,  of  course, 
to  take  the  wind  out  of  your  own  sails.  What  I  should 
vastly  like  you  to  do  is,  to  tell  me  viva  voce,  in  so  many 
words,  that  your  intentions  are  pure  and  your  miracles 
genuine." 

The  Professor  remained  silent,  still  caressing  his  pro- 
phetic beard.  At  last,  in  a  benevolent  drawl,  "Have  you  got 
any  dear  friend  in  the  spirit  land?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  call  the  spirit  land,"  I  answered. 
"Several  of  my  friends  have  died." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  'em?"  the  Professor  promptly 
demanded. 

"No,  I  confess  I  shouldn't." 

The  Professor  shook  his  head. 

"You've  not  a  rich  nature,"  he  rejoined  blandly. 

"It  depends  on  what  you  call  rich.  I  possess  on  some 
points  a  wealth  of  curiosity.  It  would  gratify  me  peculiarly 
to  have  you  say  outright,  standing  there  on  your  own  plat- 
form, that  you're  an  honest  man." 

It  seemed  to  give  him  pleasure  to  trifle  with  my  longing 
for  this  sensation.  "I'll  give  you  leave,"  he  said,  for  all 
answer,  "to  tie  my  hands  into  the  tightest  knot  you  can  in- 


92  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

vent — and  then  I'll  make  your  great-grandfather  come  in 
and  stop  the  clock.  You  know  I  couldn't  stop  a  clock, 
perched  up  on  a  mantel  shelf  five  feet  high,  with  my 
heels." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I.    "I  fancy  you're  very  clever." 

"Cleverness  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I've  great  mag- 
netism." 

"You'd  magnetize  my  great-grandfather  down  from 
heaven?" 

"Yes,  sir,  if  I  could  establish  communication.  You'll  see 
to-night  what  I  can  do.  I'll  satisfy  you.  If  I  don't  I  shall 
be  happy  to  give  you  a  private  sitting.  I'm  also  a  healing 
medium.  You  don't  happen  to  have  a  toothache?  I'd  set 
you  down  there  and  pull  it  right  out,  as  I'd  pull  off  your 
boot." 

In  compliment  to  this  possibility,  I  could  only  make 
him  my  bow.  His,  at  least,  was  a  "rich  nature."  I  bade 
him  farewell,  with  the  assurance  that,  skeptic  as  I  was, 
I  would  applaud  him  impartially  in  the  evening.  I  had 
reached  the  top  of  the  hall,  on  my  way  out,  when  I  heard 
him  give  a  low,  mellifluous  whistle.  I  turned  round,  and 
he  beckoned  to  me  to  return.  I  walked  back,  and  he  leaned 
forward  from  the  platform,  uplifting  his  stout  forefinger. 
"I  simply  desire  to  remark,"  he  said,  "that  I'm  an  honest 
man!" 

On  my  return  to  the  hotel  I  found  that  my  impatience 
for  the  Professor's  further  elucidation  of  his  honesty  made 
the  interval  look  long.  Fortune,  however,  assisted  me  to 
traverse  it  at  an  elastic  pace.  Rummaging  idly  on  a  book- 
shelf in  the  tavern  parlor,  I  found,  amid  a  pile  of  farmers' 
almanacs  and  Methodist  tracts,  a  tattered  volume  of  "Don 
Quixote."  I  repaired  to  my  room,  tilted  back  my  chair, 
and  communed  deliciously  with  the  ingenious  hidalgo. 
Here  was  "magnetism"  superior  even  to  that  of  Professor 
Fargo.  It  proved  so  effective  that  I  lost  all  note  of  time, 
and,  at  last  on  looking  at  my  watch,  perceived  that  dinner, 
must  have  been  over  for  an  hour.  Of  "service"  at  this  un- 
sophisticated hostelry  there  was  but  a  rigidly  democratic 
measure,  and  if  I  chose  to  cultivate  a  too  elegant  absence 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  93 

of  eagerness  for  beefsteak  pie  and  huckleberry  pudding,  the 
young  lady  in  long  tight  ringlets  and  short  sleeves,  who 
administered  these  delicacies  in  the  dining-room,  was  al- 
together too  haughty  a  spirit  to  urge  them  on  my  attention. 
So  I  sat  alone  and  ate  them  cold.    After  dinner  I  returned 
for  an  hour  to  La  Mancha,  and  then  strolled  forth,  accord- 
ing to  my  morning's  vow,  to  see  the  headstones  in  the  ceme- 
tery  cast   longer   shadows.     I   was   disappointed   in   the 
epitaphs;    they  were  posterior  to  the  age  of  theological 
naivete.    The  cemetery  covered  the  two  opposed  sides  of 
a  hill,  and  on  walking  up  to  the  ridge  and  looking  over  it, 
I  discovered  that  I  was  not  the  only  visitor.    Two  persons 
had  chosen  the  spot  for  a  quiet  talk.    One  of  them  was  a 
young  girl,  dressed  in  black,  and  seated  on  a  headstone, 
with  her  face  turned  toward  me.    In  spite  of  her  attitude, 
however,  she  seemed  not  to  perceive  me,  wrapt  as  she  was 
in  attention  to  her  companion — a  tall,  stout  fellow,  standing 
before  her,  with  his  back  to  me.    They  were  at  too  great  a 
distance  for  me  to  hear  their  talk,  and  indeed  in  a  few 
minutes  I  began  to  fancy  they  were  not  speaking.    Never- 
theless, the  young  girl's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  man's 
face;  he  was  holding  her  spellbound  by  an  influence  best 
known  to  himself.    She  was  very  pretty.    Her  hat  was  off, 
and  she  was  holding  it  in  her  lap ;  her  lips  were  parted,  and 
her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  her  companion's  face.    Suddenly 
she  gave  a  bright,  quick  smile,  made  a  rapid  gesture  in  the 
air,  and  laid  her  forefinger  on  her  lips.     The  movement, 
and  the  manner  of  it,  told  her  story.    She  was  deaf  and 
dumb,  and  the  man  had  been  talking  to  her  with  his  fingers. 
I  would  willingly  have  looked  at  her  longer,  but  I  turned 
away  in  delicacy,  and  walked  in  another  direction.    As  I 
was  leaving  the  cemetery,  however,  I  saw  her  advancing 
with  her  companion  to  take  the  path  which  led  to  the  gate. 
The  man's  face  was  now  turned  to  me,  and  I  straightway 
recognized  it,  in  spite  of  the  high  peaked  white  hat  which 
surmounted  it.    It  was  natural  enough,  I  suppose,  to  find 
Professor  Fargo  in  a  graveyard;  as  the  simplest  expedient 
for  ascertaining  what  goes  on  beyond  the  tomb  might  seem 
to  be  to  get  as  close  as  possible  to  the  hither  cope  of  it. 


94  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

Besides,  if  he  was  to  treat  the  townsfolk  to  messages  from 
their  buried  relatives,  it  was  not  amiss  to  "get  up"  a  few 
names  and  dates  by  the  perusal  of  the  local  epitaphs.  As 
he  passed  me,  however,  and  flourished  his  hand  in  the  air 
by  way  of  salutation,  there  was  a  fine  absence  in  his  glance 
of  any  admission  that  he  had  been  caught  cheating.  This, 
too,  was  natural  enough;  what  surprised  me  was  that  such 
a  vulgar  fellow  should  be  mated  with  so  charming  a  com- 
panion. She  gave  me  as  she  passed  the  trustfully  unshrink- 
ing glance  of  those  poor  mortals  who  are  obliged  to  listen, 
as  one  may  say,  with  their  eyes.  Her  dress  was  scanty 
and  simple,  but  there  was  delicacy  in  her  mobile  features. 
Who  was  she,  and  how  had  he  got  hold  of  her?  After 
all,  it  was  none  of  my  business;  but  as  they  passed  on, 
walking  rather  briskly,  and  I  strolled  after  them,  watching 
the  Professor's  ponderous  tread  and  the  gliding  footfall  of 
the  young  girl,  I  began  to  wonder  whether  he  might  not  be 
right — might  not,  in  truth,  have  that  about  him  which  would 
induce  the  most  venerable  of  my  ancestors  to  revert  from 
eternity  and  stop  the  clock. 


His  handbills  had  done  their  office,  and  the  Town  Hall, 
when  I  entered  it  that  evening,  was  filled  with  a  solemnly 

expectant  auditory.    P was  evidently  for  the  evening  a 

cluster  of  empty  houses.  While  my  companions  scanned  the 
stage  for  the  shadow  of  coming  events,  I  found  ample  pas- 
time in  perusing  the  social  physiognomy  of  the  town.  A 
shadow  presently  appeared  in  the  person  of  a  stout  young 
countryman,  armed  with  an  accordion,  from  which  he  ex- 
tracted an  ingenious  variety  of  lamentable  sounds.  Soon 
after  this  mysterious  prelude,  the  Professor  marshalled  out 
his  forces.  They  consisted,  first  and  foremost,  of  himself, 
his  leonine  chevelure,  his  black  dress  suit,  and  his  turquoise 
ring,  and  then  of  an  old  gentleman  who  walked  in  gravely 
and  stiffly,  without  the  Professor's  portentous  salaam  to  the 
audience,  bearing  on  his  arm  a  young  girl  in  black.  The 
Professor  managed  somehow,  by  pushing  about  the  chairs, 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  95 

turning  up  the  lamps,  and  giving  a  twist  to  the  patriotic 
drapery  in  the  background,  to  make  his  audience  feel  his 
presence  very  intimately.  His  assistants  rested  themselves 
tranquilly  against  the  wall.  It  took  me  but  a  short  time 
to  discover  that  the  young  girl  was  none  other  than  the 
companion  of  the  Professor's  tour  of  inspection  in  the 
cemetery,  and  then  I  remembered  that  he  had  spoken  in  the 
morning  of  the  gentleman  who  performed  the  mathematical 
miracles  being  assisted  by  his  daughter.  The  young  girl's 
infirmity,  and  her  pretty  face,  promised  to  impart  a  pictur- 
esque interest  to  this  portion  of  the  exhibition;  but  mean- 
while I  inferred  from  certain  ill-suppressed  murmurs,  and 
a  good  deal  of  vigorous  pantomime  among  the  female  spec- 
tators, that  she  was  found  wanting  in  the  more  immediate 
picturesqueness  demanded  of  a  young  lady  attached  to  a 
show.  Her  plain  black  dress  found  no  favor;  the  admis- 
sion fee  had  justified  the  expectation  of  a  good  deal  of  trim- 
ming and  several  bracelets.  She,  however,  poor  girl,  sat 
indifferent  in  her  place,  leaning  her  head  back  rather  wearily 
against  the  wall,  and  looking  as  if,  were  she  disposed,  she 
might  count  without  trouble  all  the  queer  bonnets  among 
her  judges.  Her  father  sat  upright  beside  her,  with  a  cane 
between  his  knees  and  his  two  hands  crossed  on  the  knob. 
He  was  a  man  of  sixty-five — tall,  lean,  pale,  and  serious. 
The  lamp  hanging  above  his  head  deepened  the  shadows  on 
his  face,  and  transformed  it  into  a  sort  of  pictorial  mask. 
He  was  very  bald,  and  his  forehead,  which  was  high  and 
handsome,  wore  in  the  lamplight  the  gleam  of  old  ivory.  The 
sockets  of  his  eyes  were  in  deep  shadow,  and  out  of  them 
his  pupils  gazed  straight  before  him,  with  the  glow  of 
smouldering  fire.  His  high-arched  nose  cast  a  long  shadow 
over  his  mouth  and  chin,  and  two  intensified  wrinkles,  be- 
side his  mustache,  made  him  look  strangely  tragic.  With  his 
tragic  look,  moreover,  he  seemed  strangely  familiar.  His 
daughter  and  the  Professor  I  regarded  as  old  friends;  but 
where  had  I  met  this  striking  specimen  of  antique  mel- 
ancholy? Though  his  gaze  seemed  fixed,  I  imagined  it  was 
covertly  wandering  over  the  audience.  At  last  it  appeared 
to  me  that  it  met  mine,  and  that  its  sombre  glow  emitted  a 


96  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

spark  of  recognition  of  my  extra-provincial  and  inferen- 
tially  more  discriminating  character.  The  next  moment  I 
identified  him — he  was  Don  Quixote  in  the  flesh;  Don 
Quixote,  with  his  sallow  Spanish  coloring,  his  high-browed, 
gentlemanly  visage,  his  wrinkles,  his  mustache,  and  his  sad- 
ness. 

Professor  Fargo's  lecture  was  very  bad.  I  had  expected 
he  would  talk  a  good  deal  of  nonsense,  but  I  had  imagined 
it  would-  be  cleverer  nonsense.  Very  possibly  there  was  a 
deeper  cleverness  in  it  than  I  perceived,  and  that,  in  his 
extreme  shrewdness,  he  was  giving  his  audience  exactly  what 
they  preferred.  It  is  an  ascertained  fact,  I  believe,  that 
rural  assemblies  have  a  relish  for  the  respectably  ponderous, 
and  an  honest  pride  in  the  fact  that  they  cannot  be  bored. 
The  Professor,  I  suppose,  felt  the  pulse  of  his  listeners,  and 
detected  treasures  of  latent  sympathy  in  their  solemn,  irre- 
sponsive silence.  I  should  have  said  the  performance  was 
falling  dead,  but  the  Professor  probably  would  have  claimed 
that  this  was  the  rapture  of  attention  and  awe.  He  cer- 
tainly kept  very  meagrely  the  promise  of  his  grandiloquent 
program,  and  gave  us  a  pound  of  precept  to  a  grain  of  ex- 
ample. His  miracles  were  exclusively  miracles  of  rhetoric. 
He  discoursed  upon  the  earth  life  and  the  summer  land, 
and  related  surprising  anecdotes  of  his  intimacy  with  the 
inhabitants  of  the  latter  region;  but  to  my  disappointment, 
the  evening  passed  away  without  his  really  bringing  us  face 
to  face  with  a  ghost.  A  number  of  "prominent  citizens" 
were  induced  to  step  upon  the  platform  and  be  magnetized, 

but  the  sturdy  agricultural  temperament  of  P showed 

no  great  pliancy  under  the  Professor's  manual  blandish- 
ments. The  attempt  was  generally  a  failure — the  only 
brilliant  feature  being  the  fine  impudence  with  which  the 
operator  lodged  the  responsibility  of  the  fiasco  upon  what 
he  called  his  victim's  low  development.  With  three  or  four 
young  girls  the  thing  was  a  trifle  better.  One  of  them 
closed  her  eyes  and  shivered;  another  had  a  fearful  access 
of  nervous  giggling;  another  burst  into  tears,  and  was  re- 
stored to  her  companions  with  an  admonitory  wink.  As 
every  one  knew  every  one  else  and  every  one  else's  family 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  97 

history,  some  sensation  was  probably  produced  by  half  a 
dozen  happy  guesses  as  to  the  Christian  names  and  last 
maladies  of  certain  defunct  town  worthies.  Another  depu- 
tation of  the  prominent  citizens  ascended  the  platform  and 
wrote  the  names  of  departed  friends  on  small  bits  of  paper, 
which  they  threw  into  a  hat.  The  Professor  then  folded  his 
arms  and  clutched  his  beard,  as  if  he  were  invoking  inspira- 
tion. At  last  he  approached  the  young  girl,  who  sat  in  the 
background,  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  forward.  She 
picked  the  papers  out  of  the  hat  and  held  them  up  one  by 
one,  for  the  Professor  to  look  at.  "There  is  no  possible  col- 
lusion," he  said  with  a  flourish,  as  he  presented  her  to  the 
audience.  "The  young  lady  is  a  deaf  mute!"  On  a  gesture 
of  her  companion  she  passed  the  paper  to  one  of  the  con- 
templative gray  heads  who  represented  the  scientific  curios- 
ity of  P ,  and  he  verified  the  Professor's  guess.  The 

Professor  risked  an  "Abijah"  or  a  "Melinda,"  and  it  turned 
out  generally  to  be  an  Ezekiel  or  a  Hepzibah.  Three  sev- 
eral times,  however,  the  performer's  genius  triumphed; 
whereupon,  the  audience  not  being  up  to  the  mark,  he  gave 
himself  a  vigorous  round  of  applause.  He  concluded  with 
the  admission  that  the  spirits  were  shy  before  such  a 
crowd,  but  that  he  would  do  much  better  for  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  individually,  if  they  would  call  on  him  at 
the  hotel. 

It  was  all  terribly  vulgar  rubbish,  and  I  was  glad  when  it 
was  over.  While  it  lasted,  the  old  gentleman  behind 
continued  to  sit  motionless,  seeming  neither  to  see,  to  hear, 
nor  to  understand.  I  wondered  what  he  thought  of  it,  and 
just  what  it  cost  his  self-respect  to  give  it  the  sanction  of 
his  presence.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  mentally  he  were 
not  present;  as  if  by  an  intense  effort  he  had  succeeded  in 
making  consciousness  a  blank,  and  was  awaiting  his  own 
turn  in  a  kind  of  trance.  Once  only  he  moved — when  the 
Professor  came  and  took  his  daughter  by  the  hand.  He 
gave  an  imperceptible  start,  controlled  himself,  then,  drop- 
ping his  hand  a  little,  closed  his  eyes  and  kept  them  closed 
until  she  returned  to  his  side.  There  was  an  intermission, 
during  which  the  Professor  walked  about  the  platform,  shak- 


98  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

ing  his  mane  and  wiping  his  forehead,  and  surveying  the 
audience  with  an  air  of  lofty  benevolence,  as  if,  having  sown 
the  seed,  he  was  expecting  to  see  it  germinate  on  the  spot. 
At  last  he  rapped  on  the  table  and  introduced  the  old  gentle- 
man— Colonel  Gifford,  the  Great  Mathematical  Magician 
and  Lightning  Calculator;  after  which  he  retreated  in  turn 
to  the  background — if  a  gentleman  with  tossing  mane  and 
flowing  beard,  that  turquoise  ring,  and  generally  expansive 
and  importunate  presence,  could  be  said  to  be,  under  any 
circumstances,  in  the  background.  The  old  gentleman  came 
forward  and  made  his  bow,  and  the  young  girl  placed  her- 
self beside  him,  simply,  unaffectedly,  with  her  hands  hang- 
ing and  crossed  in  front  of  her — with  all  the  childish  grace 
and  serenity  of  Mignon  in  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  as  we  see 
her  grouped  with  the  old  harper.  Colonel  Gifford 's  per- 
formance gave  me  an  exquisite  pleasure,  which  I  am  bound 
to  confess  was  quite  independent  of  its  intrinsic  merits. 
These,  I  am  afraid,  were  at  once  too  numerous  and  too 
scanty  to  have  made  it  a  popular  success.  It  was  a  very 
ingenious  piece  of  scientific  contrivance,  but  it  was  meagrely 
adapted  to  tickle  the  ears  of  the  groundlings.  If  one  had 
read  it — the  substance  of  it — in  a  handsomely  printed 
pamphlet,  under  the  lamp,  of  a  wet  evening  when  no  one 
was  likely  to  call,  one  would  have  been  charmed  at  once  with 
the  quaint  vivacity  of  the  author's  mode  of  statement,  and 
with  the  unexpected  agility  of  one's  own  intellect.  But  in 
spite  of  an  obvious  effort  to  commend  himself  to  under- 
standings more  familiar  with  the  rule  of  thumb  than  with  the 
differential  calculus,  Colonel  Gifford  remained  benignantly 
but  formidably  unintelligible.  He  had  devised — so  far  as 
I  understood  it — an  extension  of  the  multiplication  table  to 
enormous  factors,  by  which  he  expected  to  effect  a  revolu- 
tion in  the  whole  science  of  accounts.  There  was  the  theory, 
which  rather  lost  itself,  thanks  to  his  discursive  fervor  in 
the  mists  of  the  higher  mathematics,  and  there  was  the  prac- 
tice, which,  thanks  to  his  daughter's  cooperation,  was  much 
more  gracefully  concrete.  The  interesting  thing  to  me  was 
the  speaker's  personality,  not  his  system.  Although  evi- 
dently a  very  positive  old  man,  he  had  a  singularly  simple, 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  99 

unpretentious  tone.  His  intensity  of  faith  in  the  supreme 
importance  of  his  doctrine  gave  his  manner  a  sort  of  rever- 
ential hush.  The  echoes  of  Professor  Fargo's  windy  ver- 
biage increased  the  charms  of  his  mild  sincerity,  fie  spoke 
in  a  feeble,  tremulous  voice,  which  every  now  and  then 
quavered  upward  with  excitement,  and  then  subsided  into 
a  weary,  plaintive  cadence.  He  was  an  old  gentleman  of  a 
single  idea,  but  his  one  idea  was  a  religion.  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  feel  a  kindness  for  him,  and  imagine  that  he 
excited  among  his  auditors  something  of  the  vague  good 
will — half  pity  and  half  reverence — that  uncorrupted  souls 
entertained  for  those  neat,  keen-eyed,  elderly  people  who 
are  rumored  to  have  strange  ways  and  say  strange  things — 
to  be  "cracked,"  in  short,  like  a  fine  bit  of  porcelain  which 
will  hold  together  only  so  long  as  you  don't  push  it  about. 
But  it  was  upon  the  young  girl,  when  once  she  had  given 
them  a  taste  of  her  capacity,  that  they  bestowed  their  frank- 
est admiration.  Now  that  she  stood  forward  in  the  bright 
light,  I  could  observe  the  character  of  her  prettiness.  It 
was  no  brilliant  beauty,  but  a  sort  of  meagre,  attenuated, 
angular  grace,  the  delicacy  and  fragility  of  the  characteristic 
American  type.  Her  chest  was  flat,  her  neck  extremely  thin, 
her  visage  narrow,  and  her  forehead  high  and  prominent. 
But  her  fair  hair  encircled  her  head  in  such  fleecy  tresses, 
her  cheeks  had  such  a  pale  pink  flush,  her  eyes  such  an  ap- 
pealing innocence,  her  attitude  such  a  quaint  unconscious 
felicity,  that  one  watched  her  with  a  kind  of  upstart  belief 
that  to  such  a  stainless  little  spirit  the  v/orking  of  miracles 
might  be  really  possible.  A  couple  of  blackboards  were 
hung  against  the  wall,  on  one  of  which  the  old  man  rapidly 
chalked  a  problem — choosing  one,  of  course,  on  the  level  of 
the  brighter  minds  in  the  audience.  The  young  girl  glanced 
at  it,  and  before  we  could  count  ten  dashed  off  a  great  bold 
answer  on  the  other  tablet.  The  brighter  minds  were  then 
invited  to  verify,  and  the  young  lady  was  invariably  found 
to  have  hit  the  mark.  She  was  in  fact  a  little  arithmetical 
fairy,  and  her  father  made  her  perform  a  series  of  gymnas- 
tics among  numbers  as  brilliant  in  their  way  as  the  vocal 
flourishes  and  roulades  of  an  accomplished  singer.  Com- 


ioo  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

municating  with  her  altogether  by  the  blackboard,  he  drew 
from  her  a  host  of  examples  of  the  beauty  of  his  system  of 
transcendent  multiplication.  A  person  present  was  re- 
quested to  furnish  two  enormous  numbers,  one  to  multiply 
the  other.  The  old  man  wrote  them  out.  After  standing 
an  instant  meditative  and  just  touching  her  forehead  with 
her  forefinger,  she  chalked  down  the  prodigious  result.  Her 
father  then  performed  rapidly,  on  the  blackboard,  the 
operation  according  to  his  own  system  (which  she  had  em- 
ployed mentally) ,  and  finally  satisfied  every  one  by  repeat- 
ing it  in  the  round-about  fashion  actually  in  use.  This  was 
all  Colonel  Gifford's  witchcraft.  It  sounds  very  ponderous, 
but  it  was  really  very  charming,  and  I  had  an  agreeable  sense 
of  titillation  in  the  finer  parts  of  my  intellectual  mechanism. 
I  felt  more  like  a  thinking  creature.  I  had  never  supposed 

I  was  coming  to  P to  take  a  lesson  in  culture. 

It  seemed  on  the  morrow  as  if,  at  any  rate,  I  was  to  take 
a  lesson  in  patience.  It  was  a  Sunday,  and  I  awoke  to  hear 
the  rain  pattering  against  my  window  panes.  A  rainy  Sun- 
day at  P was  a  prospect  to  depress  the  most  elastic 

mind.  But  as  I  stepped  into  my  slippers,  I  bethought  my- 
self of  my  unfinished  volume  of  "Don  Quixote,"  and  prom- 
ised myself  to  borrow  from  Sancho  Panza  a  philosophic 
proverb  or  so  applicable  to  my  situation.  "Don  Quixote" 
consoled  me,  as  it  turned  put,  in  an  unexpected  fashion.  On 
descending  to  the  dining-room  of  the  inn,  while  I  mentally 
balanced  the  contending  claims  of  muddy  coffee  and  sour 
green  tea,  I  found  that  my  last  evening's  friends  were  also 
enjoying  the  hospitality  of  the  establishment.  It  was  the 
only  inn  in  the  place,  and  it  would  already  have  occurred 
to  a  more  investigating  mind  that  we  were  fellow-lodgers. 
The  Professor,  happily,  was  absent;  and  it  seemed  only 
reasonable  that  a  ghost-seer  should  lie  in  bed  late  of  a 
morning.  The  melancholy  old  mathematician  was  seated  at 
the  breakast  table  cutting  his  dry  toast  into  geometrical 
figures.  He  gave  me  a  formal  bow  as  I  entered,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  dip  his  sodden  polygons  into  his  tea.  The  young 
girl  was  at  the  window,  leaning  her  forehead  against  the 
pane,  and  looking  out  into  the  sea  of  yellow  mud  in  the 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  101 

village  street.  I  had  not  been  in  the  room  a  couple  of  min- 
utes when,  seeming  in  spite  of  her  deafness  to  feel  that  I 
was  near,  she  turned  straight  round  and  looked  at  me.  She 
wore  no  trace  of  fatigue  from  her  public  labors,  but  was  the 
same  clear-eyed,  noiseless  little  sprite  as  before.  I  observed 
that,  by  daylight,  her  black  dress  was  very  shabby,  and  her 
father's  frock  coat,  buttoned  with  military  precision  up  to 
his  chin,  had  long  since  exchanged  its  original  lustre  for  the 
melancholy  brilliancy  imparted  by  desperate  brushing.  I 
was  afraid  that  Professor  Fargo  was  either  a  niggardly  im- 
presario, or  that  the  great  "moral  and  scientific  combina- 
tion" was  not  always  as  remunerative  as  it  seemed  to  have 

been  at  P .  While  I  was  making  these  reflections  the 

Professor  entered,  with  an  exhilaration  of  manner  which  I 
conceived  to  be  a  tribute  to  unwonted  success. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  cried,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  me,  "what  do 
you  say  to  it  now?  I  hope  we  did  things  handsomely,  eh? 
I  hope  you  call  that  a  solid  entertainment.  This  young 
man,  you  must  know,  is  one  of  the  scoffers,"  he  went  on, 
turning  to  the  Colonel.  "He  came  yesterday  and  bearded 
the  lion  in  his  den.  He  snaps  his  fingers  at  spirits,  suspects 
me  of  foul  play,  and  would  like  me  to  admit,  in  my  private 
character,  that  you  and  I  are  a  couple  of  sharpers.  I  hope 
we  satisfied  you!" 

The  Colonel  went  on  dipping  his  toast  into  his  tea,  look- 
ing grave  and  saying  nothing.  "Poor  man!"  I  said  to  my- 
self; "he  despises  his  colleague — and  so  do  I.  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  I  cried  with  warmth;  "I  would  like  nothing  of 
the  kind.  I  was  extremely  interested  in  this  gentleman's 
exhibition;"  and  I  made  the  Colonel  a  bow.  "It  seemed  to 
me  remarkable  for  its  perfect  good  faith  and  truthfulness." 

"Many  thanks  for  the  compliment,"  said  the  Professor. 
"As  much  as  to  say  the  Colonel's  an  apostle,  and  I'm  a 
rascal.  Have  it  as  you  please;  if  so,  I'm  a  hardened  one!" 
he  declared  with  a  great  slap  on  his  pocket;  "and  anyhow, 
you  know,  it's  all  one  concern,"  and  the  Professor  betook 
himself  to  the  window  where  Miss  Gifford  was  standing. 
She  had  not  looked  round  at  him  on  his  entrance,  as  she  had 
done  at  me.  The  Colonel,  in  response  to  my  compliment, 


102  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

looked  across  at  me  with  mild  benignity,  and  I  assured  him 
afresh  of  my  admiration.  He  listened  silently,  stirring  his 
tea;  his  face  betrayed  an  odd  mixture  of  confidence  and  dep- 
recation; as  if  he  thought  it  just  possible  that  I  might 
be  laughing  at  him,  but  that  if  I  was  not,  it  was  extremely 
delightful.  I  continued  to  insist  on  its  being  distinctly  his 
half  of  the  performance  that  had  pleased  me;  so  that,  grad- 
ually convinced  of  my  respectful  sympathy,  he  seemed 
tacitly  to  intimate  that,  if  we  were  only  alone  and  he  knew 
me  a  little  better,  it  would  do  him  a  world  of  good  to  talk 
it  all  over.  I  determined  to  give  him  a  chance  at  the  earliest 
moment.  The  Professor,  meanwhile,  waiting  for  his  break- 
fast, remained  at  the  window  experimenting  in  the  deaf 
and  dumb  alphabet  with  the  young  girl.  It  took  him,  as 
an  amateur,  a  long  time  to  form  his  sentences,  but  he  went 
on  bravely,  brandishing  his  large,  plump  knuckles  before  her 
face.  She  seemed  very  patient  of  his  slowness,  and  stood 
watching  his  gestures  with  the  same  intense  earnestness  I 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  in  the  cemetery.  Most  of  my  female 
friends  enjoy  an  unimpeded  use  of  their  tongues,  and  I  was 
unable  from  experience  to  appreciate  his  situation;  but  I 
could  easily  fancy  what  a  delightful  sense  of  intimacy  there 
must  be  in  this  noiseless  exchange  of  long  looks  with  a  pretty 
creature  toward  whom  all  tendresse  of  attitude  might  be 
conveniently  attributed  to  compassion.  Before  long 
the  Colonel  pushed  away  his  cup,  turned  about,  folded 
his  arms,  and  fixed  his  eyes  with  a  frown  on  the 
Professor.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  read  in  his  glance  a 
complete  revelation  of  moral  torture.  The  stress  of  fortune 
had  made  them  associates,  but  the  Colonel  jealously  guarded 
the  limits  of  their  private  intimacy.  The  Professor,  with  all 
his  audacity,  suffered  himself  to  be  reminded  of  them.  He 
suddenly  pulled  out  his  watch  and  clamored  for  his  coffee, 
and  was  soon  seated  at  a  repast  which  indicated  that  the 
prophetic  temperament  requires  a  generous  diet.  The  young 
girl  roamed  about  the  room,  looking  idly  at  this  and  that, 
as  if  she  were  used  to  doing  nothing.  When  she  met  my 
eye,  she  smiled  brightly,  after  a  moment's  gravity,  as  if  she 
were  also  used  to  saying  to  people,  mentally,  "Yes,  I  know 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  103 

I'm  a  strange  little  creature,  but  you  must  not  be  afraid  of 
me."  The  Professor  had  hardly  got  that  array  of  innumer- 
able little  dishes,  of  the  form  and  dimension  of  soap-trays, 
with  which  one  is  served  in  the  rural  hostelries  of  New  Eng- 
land, well  under  contribution,  before  a  young  lady  was  intro- 
duced who  had  come  to  request  him  to  raise  a  ghost — a  reso- 
lute young  lady,  with  several  ringlets  and  a  huge  ancestral 
umbrella,  whose  matutinal  appetite  for  the  supernatural  had 
not  been  quenched  by  the  raw  autumnal  storm.  She  pro- 
duced very  frankly  a  "tin-type"  of  a  florid  young  man, 
actually  deceased,  and  demanded  to  be  confronted  with  his 
ghost.  The  day  was  beginning  well  for  the  Professor.  He 
gallantly  requested  her  to  be  seated,  and  promised  her  every 
satisfaction.  While  he  was  hastily  despatching  his  break- 
fast, the  Colonel's  daughter  made  acquaintance  with  her  be- 
reaved sister.  She  drew  the  young  man's  portrait  gently 
out  of  her  hand,  examined  it,  and  then  shook  her  head  with 
a  little  grimace  of  displeasure.  The  young  woman  laughed 
good-naturedly,  and  screamed  into  her  ear  that  she  didn't 
believe  she  was  a  bit  deaf  and  dumb.  At  the  announcement 
the  Colonel,  who,  after  eyeing  her  while  she  stated  her  credu- 
lous errand  with  solemn  compassion,  had  turned  away  to  the 
window,  as  if  to  spare  himself  the  spectacle  of  his  colleague's 
unblushing  pretensions,  turned  back  again  and  eyed  her 
coldly  from  head  to  foot.  "I  recommend  you,  madam,"  he 
said  sternly,  "to  reserve  your  suspicions  for  an  occasion  in 
which  they  may  be  more  pertinent." 

Later  in  the  morning  I  found  him  still  in  the  dining- 
room  with  his  daughter.  Professor  Fargo,  he  said,  was  in 
the  parlor,  raising  ghosts  by  the  dozen;  and  after  a  little 
pause  he  gave  an  angry  laugh,  as  if  his  suppressed  irritation 
were  causing  him  more  than  usual  discomfort.  He  was 
walking  up  and  down,  with  slow,  restless  steps,  and  smoking 
a  frugal  pipe.  I  took  the  liberty  of  offering  him  a  good 
cigar,  and  while  he  puffed  it  gratefully,  the  need  to  justify 
himself  for  his  odd  partnership  slowly  gathered  force.  "It 
would  be  a  satisfaction  for  me  to  tell  you,  sir,"  he  said  at 
last,  looking  at  me  with  eyes  that  fairly  glittered  with  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  himself  speak  the  words,  "that  my 


104    '  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

connection  with  Professor  Fargo  implies  no — no "  and 

he  paused  for  a  moment — "no  intellectual  approval  of  his 
extraordinary  pretensions.  This,  of  course,  is  between  our- 
selves. You're  a  stranger  to  me,  and  it's  doubtless  the 
height  of  indiscretion  in  me  to  take  you  into  my  confidence. 
My  subsistence  depends  on  my  not  quarrelling  with  my 
companion.  If  you  were  to  repeat  to  him  that  I  went  about 
undermining  the  faith,  the  extremely  retributive  faith,  as 
you  see"  (and  he  nodded  toward  the  parlor  door),  "of  his 
audiences,  he  would  of  course  dissolve  our  partnership  and 
I  should  be  adrift  again,  trying  to  get  my  heavy  boat  in, 
tow.  I  should  perhaps  feel  like  an  honest  man  again,  but 
meanwhile,  probably,  I  should  starve.  Misfortune,"  he 
added  bitterly,  "makes  strange  bedfellows;  and  I  have  been 
unfortunate!" 

There  was  so  much  melancholy  meaning  in  this  declara- 
tion that  I  asked  him  frankly  who  and  what  he  was. 
He  puffed  his  cigar  vigorously  for  some  moments  without 
replying,  and  at  last  turned  his  fine  old  furrowed  visage 
upon  me  through  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "I'm  a  fanatic.  I  feed 
on  illusions  and  cherish  ambitions  which  will  never  butter 
my  bread.  Don't  be  afraid;  I  won't  buttonhole  you;  but 
I  have  a  head  full  of  schemes  which  I  believe  the  world 
would  be  the  happier  for  giving  a  little  quiet  attention  to. 
I'm  an  inventor;  and  like  all  inventors  whose  devices  are 
of  value,  I  believe  that  my  particular  contrivance  would  be 
the  salvation  of  a  misguided  world.  I  have  looked  a  good 
deal  into  many  things,  but  my  latest  hobby  is  the  system  of 
computation  of  which  I  tried  to  give  a  sketch  last  night. 
I'm  afraid  you  didn't  understand  a  word  of  it,  but  I  assure 
you  it's  a  very  beautiful  thing.  If  it  could  only  get  a  fair 
hearing  and  be  thoroughly  propagated  and  adopted,  it  would 
save  our  toiling  human  race  a  prodigious  deal  of  ungrateful 
labor.  In  America  alone,  I  have  calculated,  it  would  save 
the  business  community  about  23,000  hours  in  the  course  of 
ten  years.  If  time  is  money,  they  are  worth  saving.  But 
there  I  go!  You  oughtn't  ask  me  to  talk  about  myself. 
Myself  is  my  ideas!" 

A  little  judicious  questioning,  however,  drew  from  him 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  105 

a  number  of  facts  of  a  more  immediately  personal  kind. 
His  colonelship,  he  intimated,  was  held  by  the  inglorious 
tenure  of  militia  service,  and  was  only  put  forward  to  help 
him  to  make  a  figure  on  Professor  Fargo's  platform.  It  was 
part  of  the  general  humbuggery  of  the  attempt  to  bribe 
people  to  listen  to  wholesome  truths — truths  the  neglect  of 
which  was  its  own  chastisement.  "I  have  always  had  a  pas- 
sion for  scientific  research,  and  I  have  squandered  my  sub- 
stance in  experiments  which  the  world  called  fruitless.  They 
were  curious,  they  were  beautiful,  they  were  divine!  But 
they  wouldn't  turn  any  one's  mill  or  grind  any  one's 
corn,  and  I  was  treated  like  a  mediaeval  alchemist,  astray  in 
the  modern  world.  Chemistry,  physics,  mathematics,  phil- 
ology, medicine — I've  dug  deep  in  them  all.  Each,  in  turn, 
has  been  a  passion  to  which  I've  given  my  days  and  my 
nights.  But  apparently  I  haven't  the  art  of  finding  favor 
for  my  ideas — of  sweetening  the  draught  so  that  people  will 
drink  it.  So  here  I  am,  after  all  my  vigils  and  ventures,  an 
obscure  old  man,  ruined  in  fortune,  broken  down  in  health 
and  sadly  diminished  in  hope,  trying  hard  to  keep  afloat  by 
rowing  in  the  same  boat  as  a  gentleman  who  turns  tables 
and  raises  ghosts.  I'm  a  proud  man,  sir,  and  a  devotee  of 
the  exact  sciences.  You  may  imagine  what  I  suffer.  I 
little  fancied  ten  years  ago  that  I  was  ever  going  to  make 
capital,  on  a  mountebank's  booth,  of  the  pathetic  infirmity 
of  my  daughter." 

The  young  girl,  while  her  father  talked,  sat  gazing  at  him 
in  wistful  surprise.  I  inferred  from  it  that  this  expansive 
mood  was  rare;  she  wondered  what  long  story  he  was  telling. 
As  he  mentioned  her,  I  gave  her  a  sudden  glance.  Perceiv- 
ing it,  she  blushed  slightly  and  turned  away.  The  move- 
ment seemed  at  variance  with  what  I  had  supposed  to  be 
her  characteristic  indifference  to  observation.  "I  have  a 
good  reason,"  he  said,  "for  treating  her  with  more  than  the 
tenderness  which  such  an  infirmity  usually  commands.  At 
the  time  of  my  marriage,  and  for  some  time  after,  I  was  per- 
forming a  series  of  curious  chemical  researches.  My  wife 
was  a  wonderfully  pretty  little  creature.  She  used  to  come 
tripping  and  rustling  about  my  laboratory,  asking  questions 


106  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

of  the  most  comical  ignorance,  peeping  and  rummaging 
everywhere,  raising  the  lids  of  jars,  and  making  faces  at  the 
bad  smells.  One  day  while  she  was  in  the  room  I  stepped 
out  on  the  balcony  to  examine  something  which  I  had  placed 
to  dry  in  the  sun.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  terrific  explosion; 
it  smashed  the  window-glass  into  atoms.  Rushing  in,  I 
found  my  wife  in  a  swoon  on  the  floor.  A  compound  which 
I  had  placed  to  heat  on  a  furnace  had  been  left  too  long;  I 
had  underestimated  its  activity.  My  wife  was  not  visibly 
injured,  but  when  she  came  to  her  senses  again,  she  found 
she  had  lost  her  hearing.  It  never  returned.  Shortly  after- 
wards my  daughter  was  born — born  the  poor  deaf  creature 
you  see.  I  lost  my  wife  and  I  gave  up  chemistry.  As  I 
advanced  in  life,  I  became  convinced  that  my  ruling  passion 
was  mathematics.  I've  gone  into  them  very  deeply;  I  con- 
sidered them  the  noblest  acquisition  of  the  human  mind, 
and  I  don't  hesitate  to  say  that  I  have  profound  and  origi- 
nal views  on  the  subject.  If  you  have  a  head  for  such 
things,  I  could  open  great  vistas  to  you.  But  I'm  afraid 
you  haven't!  Ay,  it's  a  desperately  weak-witted  generation. 
The  world  has  a  horror  of  concentrated  thought;  it  wants 
the  pill  to  be  sugared;  it  wants  everything  to  be  made  easy; 
it  prefers  the  brazen  foolery  that  you  and  I  sat  through  last 
night  to  the  divine  harmonies  of  the  infinite  science  of  num- 
bers. That's  why  I'm  a  beggar,  droning  out  my  dreary 
petition  and  pushing  forth  my  little  girl  to  catch  the  cop- 
pers. That's  why  I've  had  to  strike  a  partnership  with  a 
vulgar  charlatan.  I  was  a  long  time  coming  to  it,  but  I'm 
well  in  for  it  now.  I  won't  tell  you  how,  from  rebuff  to 
rebuff,  from  failure  to  failure,  through  hope  deferred  and 
justice  denied,  I  have  finally  come  to  this.  It  would  overtax 
both  your  sympathy  and  your  credulity.  You  wouldn't 
believe  the  stories  I  could  relate  of  the  impenetrable  stupid- 
ity of  mankind,  of  the  leaden  empire  of  Routine.  I  squan- 
dered my  property,  I  confess  it,  but  not  in  the  vulgar  way. 
It  was  a  carnival  of  high  research,  a  long  debauch  of  experi- 
ment. When  I  had  melted  down  my  last  cent  in  the  con- 
suming crucible,  I  thought  the  world  might  be  willing  to 
pay  me  something  for  my  results.  The  world  had  better 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  107 

uses  for  its  money  than  the  purchase  of  sovereign  truth!  1 
became  a  solicitor;  I  went  from  door  to  door,  offering  peo- 
ple a  choice  of  twenty  superb  formulated  schemes,  the 
paltriest  of  which  contained  the  germs  of  a  peaceful  revolu- 
tion. The  poor  unpatented  visions  are  at  this  hour  all  in 
a  bundle  upstairs  in  my  trunk.  In  the  midst  of  my  troubles 
I  had  the  ineffable  pleasure  of  finding  that  my  little  girl 
was  a  genius.  I  don't  know  why  it  should  have  been  a 
pleasure;  her  poor  father's  genius  stood  there  before  me  as 
a  warning.  But  it  was  a  delight  to  find  that  her  little  im- 
prisoned, soundless  mind  was  not  a  blank.  She  had  in- 
herited my  passion  for  numbers.  My  folly  had  taken  a 
precious  faculty  from  her ;  it  was  but  just  I  should  give  her 
another.  She  was  in  good  hands  for  becoming  perfect.  Her 
gift  is  a  rare  one  among  women,  but  she  is  not  of  the  com- 
mon feminine  stuff.  She's  very  simple — strangely  simple  in 
some  ways.  She  has  never  been  talked  to  by  women  about 
petticoats,  nor  by  men  about  love.  She  doesn't  reason;  her 
skill  at  figures  is  a  kind  of  intuition.  One  day  it  came 
into  my  head  that  I  might  lecture  for  a  livelihood.  I  had 
listened  to  windy  orators,  in  crowded  halls,  who  had  less  to 
say  than  I.  So  I  lectured,  sometimes  to  twenty  people, 
sometimes  to  five,  once  to  no  one  at  all.  One  morning,  some 
six  months  ago,  I  was  waited  upon  by  my  friend  there.  He 
told  me  frankly  that  he  had  a  show  which  didn't  draw  as 
powerfully  as  it  deserved,  and  proposed  that,  as  I  also 
seemed  unable  to  catch  the  public  ear,  we  should  combine 
our  forces  and  carry  popularity  by  storm.  His  entertain- 
ment, alone,  was  rather  thin;  mine  also  seemed  to  lack  the 
desirable  consistency;  but  a  mixture  of  the  two  might  pro- 
duce an  effective  compound.  I  had  but  five  dollars  in  my 
pocket.  I  disliked  the  man,  and  I  believe  in  spiritualism 
about  as  much  as  I  believe  that  the  sun  goes  round  the 
earth.  But  we  must  live,  and  I  made  a  bargain.  It  was 
a  very  poor  bargain,  but  it  keeps  us  alive.  I  took  a  few 
hints  from  the  Professor,  and  brightened  up  my  lucky  for- 
mulas a  little.  Still,  we  have  terribly  thin  houses.  I 
couldn't  play  the  mountebank;  it's  a  faculty  I  lack.  At 
last  the  Professor  bethought  himself  that  I  possessed  the 


io8  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

golden  goose.  From  the  mountebank's  point  of  view  a 
pretty  little  deaf  and  dumb  daughter,  who  could  work 
miracles  on  the  blackboard,  was  a  treasure  to  a  practical 
mind.  The  idea  of  dragging  my  poor  child  and  her  pathetic 
idiosyncrasies  before  the  world  was  extremely  repulsive  to 
me;  but  the  Professor  laid  the  case  before  the  little  maid 
herself,  and  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  she  informed  him  that 
she  was  ready  to  make  her  curtsey  on  the  platform  as  a 
'lightning  calculator.'  I  consented  to  let  her  try,  and  you 
see  that  she  succeeded.  She  draws,  not  powerfully,  but 
sufficiently,  and  we  manage  to  keep  afloat." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Professor  returned  from  his  morn- 
ing's labors — flushed,  dishevelled,  rubbing  his  hands,  evi- 
dently in  high  good  humor.  The  Colonel  immediately  be- 
came silent  and  grave,  asked  no  questions,  and,  when  dinner 
was  served  shortly  afterwards,  refused  everything  and  sat 
with  a  melancholy  frown  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  plate. 
His  comrade  was  plainly  a  terrible  thorn  in  his  side.  I  was 
curious,  on  the  other  hand,  to  know  how  the  Colonel  affected 
the  Professor,  and  I  soon  discovered  that  the  latter  was  by 
no  means  his  exuberant  impudent  self  within  the  radius 
of  his  colleague's  pregnant  silence.  If  there  was  little 
love  lost  between  them,  the  ranting  charlatan  was  at  least 
held  in  check  by  an  indefinable  respect  for  his  companion's 
probity.  He  was  a  fool,  doubtless,  with  his  careful  state- 
ments and  his  incapacity  to  take  a  humorous  view  of  human 
credulity;  but,  somehow,  he  was  a  venerable  fool,  and  the 
Professor,  as  a  social  personage,  without  the  inspiration  of 
a  lecture-room  more  or  less  irritatingly  interspaced,  and  with 
that  pale,  grave  old  mathematician  sitting  by  like  a  marble 
monument  to  Veracity,  lacked  the  courage  to  ventilate  his 
peculiar  pretensions.  On  this  occasion,  however,  he  swal- 
lowed the  Colonel's  tacit  protest  with  a  wry  face.  I  don't 
know  what  he  had  brought  to  pass  in  the  darkened  parlor; 
whatever  it  was,  it  had  agreeably  stimulated  his  confidence 
in  his  resources.  We  had  been  joined,  moreover,  at  dinner 
by  half  a  dozen  travelers  of  less  oppressively  skeptical 
mould  than  the  Colonel,  and  under  these  circumstances  it 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  109 

was  peculiarly  trying  to  have  to  veil  one's  brighter  genius. 
There  was  undischarged  thunder  in  the  air. 

The  rain  ceased  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  sun  leaped 
out  and  set  the  thousand  puddles  of  the  village  street  a-flash- 
ing.  I  found  the  Colonel  sitting  under  the  tavern  porch 
with  a  village  urchin  between  his  knees,  to  whom  he  seemed 
to  be  imparting  the  rudiments  of  mathematical  science. 
The  little  boy  had  a  bulging  forehead,  a  prodigious  number 
of  freckles,  and  the  general  aspect  of  a  juvenile  Newton. 
Being  present  at  the  Colonel's  lecture,  he  had  been  fired 
with  a  laudable  curiosity  to  know  more,  and  learning  that 
Professor  Fargo  imparted  information  a  domicile,  had  ven- 
tured to  believe  that  his  colleague  did  likewise.  The  child's 
father,  a  great,  gaunt,  brown-faced  farmer,  with  a  yellow 
tuft  on  his  chin,  stood  by,  blushing  at  the  audacity  of  his 
son  and  heir,  but  grinning  delightedly  at  his  brightness. 
The  poor  Colonel,  whose  meed  of  recognition  had  as  yet  been 
so  meagre,  was  vastly  tickled  by  this  expression  of  infantine 
sympathy,  and  discoursed  to  the  little  prodigy  with  the  most 
condescending  benevolence.  Certainly,  as  the  boy  grows  up, 
the  most  vivid  of  his  childish  memories  will  be  that  of  the 
old  man  with  glowing  eyes  and  a  softened  voice  coming  from 
under  his  white  mustache — the  voice  which  held  him  stock- 
still  for  a  whole  half  hour,  and  assured  him  afterwards  that 
he  was  a  little  Trojan.  When  the  lesson  was  over,  I  pro- 
posed a  walk  to  the  Colonel,  and  we  wandered  away  out  of 
the  village.  The  afternoon,  as  it  waned,  became  glorious; 
the  heavy  clouds,  broken  and  dispersed,  sailed  through  the 
glowing  sky  like  high-prowed  galleys,  draped  in  purple  and 
silver.  I,  on  my  side,  shall  never  forget  the  Colonel's  ex- 
cited talk,  nor  how  at  last,  as  we  sat  on  a  rocky  ridge  look- 
ing off  to  the  sunset,  he  fairly  unburdened  his  conscience. 

"Yes,  sir!"  he  said;  "it's  a  base  concession  to  the  ignoble 
need  of  keeping  body  and  soul  together.  Sometimes  I  feel 
as  if  I  couldn't  stand  it  another  hour — as  if  it  were  better 
to  break  with  the  impudent  rascal  and  sink  or  swim  as  fate 
decrees,  than  get  a  hearing  for  the  truth  at  such  a  cost.  It's 
all  very  well  holding  my  tongue  and  insisting  that  I,  at  least, 
make  no  claims  for  the  man's  vile  frauds;  my  connection 


no  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

with  him  is  itself  a  sanction,  and  my  presence  at  his  damna- 
ble mummeries  an  outrage  to  the  purity  of  truth.  You 
see  I  have  the  misfortune  to  believe  in  something,  to  know 
something,  and  to  think  it  makes  a  difference  whether  people 
feed,  intellectually,  on  poisoned  garbage  or  on  the  ripe,  sweet 
fruit  of  true  science!  I  shut  my  eyes  every  night,  and  lock 
my  jaws,  and  clench  my  teeth,  but  I  can't  help  hearing  the 
man's  windy  rubbish.  It's  a  tissue  of  scandalous  lies,  from 
beginning  to  end.  I  know  them  all  by  heart  by  this  time, 
and  I  verily  believe  I  could  stand  up  and  rattle  them  off' 
myself.  They  ring  in  my  ears  all  day,  and  I  have  horrible 
dreams  at  night  of  crouching  under  a  table  with  a  lon^ 
cloth,  and  tapping  on  the  top  of  it.  The  Professor  stands 
outside  swearing  to  the  audience  that  it's  the  ghost  of  Archi- 
medes. Then  I  begin  to  suffocate,  and  overturn  the  table, 
and  appear  before  a  thousand  people  as  the  accomplice  of 
the  impostor.  There  are  times  when  the  value  of  my  own 
unheeded  message  to  mankind  seems  so  vast,  so  immeasur- 
able, that  I  am  ready  to  believe  that  any  means  are  lawful 
which  may  enable  me  to  utter  it ;  that  if  one's  ship  is  to  set 
sail  for  the  golden  islands,  even  a  flaunting  buccaneer  may 
tow  it  into  the  open  sea.  In  such  moods,  when  I  sit  there 
against  the  wall,  in  the  shade,  closing  my  eyes  and  trying 
not  to  hear — I  really  don't  hear!  My  mind  is  a  myriad 
miles  away — floating,  soaring  on  the  wings  of  invention. 
But  all  of  a  sudden  the  odiousness  of  my  position  comes 
over  me,  and  I  can't  believe  my  senses  that  it's  verily  I 
who  sit  there — I  to  whom  a  grain  of  scientific  trulK  is  more 
precious  than  a  mountain  of  gold!" 

He  was  silent  a  long  time,  and  I  myself  hardly  knew  what 
consolation  to  offer  him.  The  most  friendly  part  was  simply 
to  let  him  expend  his  bitterness  to  the  last  drop.  "But 
that's  not  the  worst,"  he  resumed  after  a  while.  "The  worst 
is  that  I  hate  the  greasy  rascal  to  come  near  my  daughter, 
and  that,  living  and  travelling  together  as  we  do,  he's  never 
far  off.  At  first  he  used  to  engage  a  small  child  beforehand 
to  hold  up  his  little  folded  papers  for  him;  but  a  few  weeks 
ago  it  came  into  his  head  that  it  would  give  the  affair  an 
•sven  greater  air  of  innocence,  if  he  could  make  use  of  my 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  in 

poor  girl.  It  does,  I  believe,  and  it  tells,  and  iVe  been 
brought  so  low  ,that  I  sit  by  night  after  night  and  endure 
it.  She,  on  her  side,  dreams  of  no  harm,  and  takes  the  Pro- 
fessor for  an  oracle  and  his  lecture  for  a  masterpiece.  T 
have  never  undeceived  her,  for  I  have  no  desire  to  teach 
her  that  there  are  such  things  as  falsity  and  impurity.  Ex- 
cept that  our  perpetual  railway  journeys  give  her  bad  head- 
aches, she  supposes  that  we  lead  a  life  of  pure  felicity.  But 
some  fine  day  our  enterprising  friend  will  be  wanting  to  put 
her  into  a  pink  dress  and  a  garland  of  artificial  flowers,  and 
then,  with  God's  help,  we  shall  part  company!" 

My  silence,  in  reply  to  this  last  burst  of  confidence,  im- 
plied the  most  deferential  assent;  but  I  was  privately  won- 
dering whether  "the  little  maid"  was  so  perfectly  ignorant  of 
evil  as  the  old  man  supposed.  I  remembered  the  episode  at 
the  cemetery  the  day  before,  and  doubted  greatly  whether 
her  father  had  countenanced  it.  With  his  sentiments  touch- 
ing the  Professor,  this  was  most  unlikely.  The  young  girl, 
then,  had  a  secret,  and  it  gave  me  real  discomfort  to  think, 
this  coarse  fellow  should  keep  the  key  of  it.  I  feared  that 
the  poor  Colonel  was  yoked  to  his  colleague  more  cruelly 
than  he  knew.  On  my  return  to  the  inn  this  impression  was 
vividly  confirmed.  Dusk  had  fallen  when  we  entered  the 
public  room,  and  in  the  gray  light  which  pervaded  it  tw6 
figures  at  one  of  the  windows  escaped  immediate  recognition. 
But  in  a  moment  one  of  them  advanced,  and  in  the  sonorous 
accents  of  Professor  Fargo  hoped  that  we  had  enjoyed 
our  expedition.  The  Colonel  started  and  stared,  and  left  me 
to  answer.  He  sat  down  heavily  on  the  sofa;  in  a  moment 
his  daughter  came  over  and  sat  beside  him,  placing  her 
hand  gently  on  his  knee.  But  he  let  it  lie,  and  remained 
motionless,  resting  his  hot  head  on  his  cane.  The  Pro- 
fessor withdrew  promptly,  but  with  a  swagger  which  sug- 
gested to  my  sense  that  he  could  now  afford  to  treat  his 
vanity  to  a  dose  of  revenge  for  the  old  man's  contempt. 

Later  in  the  evening  I  came  down  stairs  again,  and  as  I 
passed  along  the  hall  heard  Professor  Fargo  perorating 
vigorously  in  the  bar-room.  Evidently  he  had  an  audience, 
and  the  scene  was  probably  curious.  Drawing  near,  I  found 


112  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

this  gifted  man  erect  on  the  floor,  addressing  an  assemblage 

of  the  convivial  spirits  of  P .    In  an  extended  hand  he 

brandished  a  glass  of  smoking  whiskey  and  water ;  with  the 
other  he  caressed  his  rounded  periods.  He  had  evidently 
been  drinking  freely,  and  I  perceived  that  even  the  prophetic 
vision  was  liable  to  obfuscation.  It  had  been  a  brilliant  day 
for  him;  fortune  smiled,  and  he  felt  strong.  A  dozen  rustic 
loafers,  of  various  degrees  of  inveteracy,  were  listening  to 
him  with  a  speechless  solemnity,  which  may  have  been 
partly  faith,  but  was  certainly  partly  rum.  In  a  corner,  out 
of  the  way,  sat  the  Colonel,  with  an  unfinished  glass  before 
him.  The  Professor  waved  his  hand  as  I  appeared,  with 
magnificent  hospitality,  and  resumed  his  discourse. 

"Let  me  say,  gentlemen,"  he  cried,  "that  it's  not  my  pecu- 
liar influence  with  the  departed  that  I  chiefly  value;  for, 
after  all,  you  know,  a  ghost  is  but  a  ghost.  It  can't  do  much 
any  way.  You  can't  touch  it,  half  the  time  you  can't  see 
it.  If  it  happens  to  be  the  spirit  of  a  pretty  girl,  you  know, 
this  makes  you  kind  of  mad.  The  great  thing  now  is  to  be 
able  to  exercise  a  mysterious  influence  over  living  organ- 
isms. You  can  do  it  with  your  eye,  you  can  do  it  with  your 
voice,  you  can  do  it  with  certain  motions  of  your  hand — as 
thus,  you  perceive ;  you  can  do  it  with  nothing  at  all  by  just 
setting  your  mind  on  it.  That  is,  of  course,  some  people 
can  do  it;  not  very  many — certain  rich,  powerful  sympa- 
thetic natures  that  you  now  and  then  come  across.  It's 
called  magnetism.  Various  works  have  been  written  on  the 
subject,  and  various  explanations  offered,  but  they  don't 
amount  to  much.  All  you  can  say  is  that  it's  just  mag- 
netism, and  that  you've  either  got  it  or  you  haven't  got  it. 
Now  the  Lord  has  seen  fit  to  bestow  it  on  me.  It's  a  great 
responsibility,  but  I  try  to  make  a  noble  use  of  it.  I  can 
do  all  sorts  of  things.  I  can  find  out  things.  I  can  make 
people  confess.  I  can  make  'em  sick  and  I  can  make  'em 
well.  I  can  make  'em  in  love — what  do  you  say  to  that? 
I  can  take  'em  out  of  love  again,  and  make  'em  swear  they 
wouldn't  marry  the  loved  object,  not  if  they  were  paid  for 
it.  How  it  is  I  do  it  I  confess  I  can't  tell  you.  I 
just  say  to  myself,  'Come  now,  Professor,  we'll  fix  this  one 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  113 

or  that  one.'  It's  a  free  gift.  It's  magnetism,  in  short. 
Some  folks  call  it  animal  magnetism,  but  I  call  it  spiritual 
magnetism." 

There  was  a  profound  silence;  the  air  seemed  charged 
with  that  whimsical  retention  of  speech  which  is  such  a  com- 
mon form  of  American  sociability.  I  looked  askance  at  the 
Colonel ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  paler  than  usual,  and 
that  his  eyes  were  really  fierce.  Professor  Fargo  turned 
about  to  the  bar  to  replenish  his  glass,  and  the  old  man 
slowly  rose  and  came  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  He 
looked  round  at  the  company;  he  evidently  meant  to  say 
something.  He  stood  silent  for  some  moments,  and  I  saw 
that  he  was  in  a  tremor  of  excitement.  "You've  listened 
to  what  this  gentleman  has  been  saying?"  he  began.  "I 
won't  say,  Have  you  understood  it?  It's  not  to  be  under- 
stood. Some  of  you,  perhaps,  saw  me  last  night  sitting  on 
the  platform  while  Professor  Fargo  said  his  say.  You  know 
that  we  are  partners — that  for  convenience's  sake  we  work 
together.  I  wish  to  say  that  you  are  not  therefore  to  be- 
lieve that  I  assent  to  the  doctrines  he  has  just  promulgated. 
'Doctrines'  is  a  flattering  name  for  them.  I  speak  in  the 
name  of  science.  Science  recognizes  no  such  thing  as  'spirit- 
ual magnetism';  no  such  thing  as  mysterious  fascinations; 
no  such  thing  as  spirit-rappings  and  ghost-raising.  I  vowe  it 
to  my  conscience  to  say  so.  I  can't  remain  there  and  see 
you  all  sit  mum  when  this  gentleman  concludes  such  a  mon- 
strous piece  of  talk.  I  have  it  on  my  conscience~to  assure 
you  that  no  intelligent  man,  woman,  or  child  need  fear  to 
be  made  to  do  anything  against  his  own  will  by  the  super- 
natural operation  of  the  will  of  Professor  Fargo." 

If  there  had  been  silence  on  the  conclusion  of  Professor 
Fargo 's  harangue,  what  shall  I  say  of  the  audible  absence 
of  commentary  which  followed  the  Colonel's  remarks? 
There  was  an  intense  curiosity — I  felt  it  myself — to  see  what 
a  clever  fellow  like  the  Professor  would  do.  The  Colonel 
stood  there  wiping  his  forehead,  as  if,  having  thrown  down 
the  gauntlet,  he  were  prepared  to  defend  it.  The  Professor 
looked  at  him  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  a  smile  which 
was  an  excellent  imitation  of  genial  tolerance.  "My  dear 


114  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

sir,"  he  cried,  "I'm  glad  you've  eased  your  mind.  I  knew 
you  wanted  to;  I  hope  you  feel  better.  With  your  leave, 
we  won't  go  into  the  philosophy  of  the  dispute.  It  was 
George  Washington,  I  believe,  who  said  that  people  should 
wash  their  dirty  linen  at  home.  You  don't  endorse  my 
views — you're  welcome.  If  you  weren't  a  very  polite  old 
gentleman,  I  know  you'd  like  to  say  that,  in  a  single  word, 
they're  the  views  of  a  quack.  Now,  in  a  single  word,  I  deny 
it.  You  deny  the  existence  of  the  magnetic  power;  I  reply 
that  I  personally  possess  it,  and  that  if  you'll  give  me  a 
little  more  time,  I'll  force  you  to  say  that  there's  something 
in  it.  I'll  force  you  to  say  I  can  do  something.  These 
gentlemen  here  can't  witness  the  consummation,  but  at  least 
they  can  hear  my  promise.  I  promise  you  evidence.  You 
go  by  facts:  I'll  give  you  facts.  I'd  like  just  to  have  you 
remark  before  our  friends  here,  that  you'll  take  account  of 
them!" 

The  Colonel  stood  still,  wiping  his  forehead.  He  had  even 
less  prevision  than  I  of  the  character  of  the  Professor's  pro- 
jected facts,  but  of  course  he  could  make  but  one  answer. 
He  bowed  gravely  to  the  Professor  and  to  the  company.  "I 
shall  never  refuse,"  he  said,  "to  examine  serious  evidence. 
Whatever,"  he  added,  after  a  moment,  "it  might  cost  my 
prejudices." 


ni 

The  Colonel's  incorruptible  conservatism  had  done  me 
good  mentally,  and  his  personal  situation  had  deeply  in- 
terested me.  As  I  bade  him  farewell  the  next  day — the 
"Combination"  had  been  heralded  in  a  neighboring  town — 
I  wished  him  heartily  that  what  was  so  painfully  crooked 
in  the  latter  might  be  straightened  out  in  time.  He  shook 
his  head  sadly,  and  answered  that  his  time  was  up. 

He  was  often  in  my  thoughts  for  the  next  six  weeks,  but 
I  got  no  tidings  of  him.  Meanwhile  I  too  was  leading  an 
ambulant  life,  and  travelling  from  town  to  town  in  a  cause 
which  demanded  a  good  deal  of  ready-made  eloquence.  I 
didn't  exactly  pretend  that  the  regeneration  of  society  de- 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  115 

pended  on  its  acceptance  of  my  wares,  but  I  devoted  a  good 
deal  of  fellow  feeling  to  the  Colonel's  experience  as  an 
uncredited  solicitor.  At  the  beginning  of  the  winter  I  found 
myself  in  New  York.  One  evening,  as  I  wandered  along  a 
certain  avenue,  undedicated  to  gentility,  I  perceived,  in  the 
flare  of  a  gas-lamp,  on  a  placard  beside  a  doo'rway,  the  name 
and  attributes  of  Professor  Fargo.  I  immediately  stopped 
and  read  the  manifesto.  It  was  even  more  grandiloquent 
than  the  yellow  hand-bill  at  P ;  for  to  overtop  concur- 
rence in  the  metropolis  one  must  mount  upon  very  high 
stilts  indeed.  The  "Combination"  still  subsisted,  and  Colo- 
nel Gifford  brought  up  the  rear.  I  observed  with  interest 
that  his  daughter  now  figured  in  an  independent  and  ex- 
tremely ornamental  paragraph.  Above  the  door  was  a  blue 
lamp,  and  beneath  the  lamp  the  inscription  "Excelsior  Hall." 
No  one  was  going  in,  but  as  I  stood  there  a  young  man  in  a 
white  overcoat,  with  his  hat  on  his  nose,  came  out  and 
planted  himself  viciously,  with  a  tell-tale  yawn,  in  the  door- 
way. The  poor  Colonel  had  lost  an  auditor;  I  was  deter- 
mined he  should  have  a  substitute.  Paying  my  fee  and 
making  my  way  into  the  room,  I  found  that  the  situation 
was  indeed  one  in  which  units  rated  high.  There  were  not 
more  than  twenty  people  present,  and  the  appearance  of  this 
meagre  group  was  not  in  striking  harmony  with  the  state- 
ment of  the  placard  without,  that  Professor  Fargo 's  enter- 
tainment was  thronged  with  the  intellect  and  fashion  of  the 
metropolis.  The  professor  was  on  the  platform,  unfolding 

his  budget  of  miracles;  behind  him,  as  at  P ,  sat  the 

Colonel  and  his  daughter.  The  Professor  was  evidently  de- 
pressed by  the  preponderance  of  empty  benches,  and  carried 
off  his  revelations  with  an  indifferent  grace.  Disappoint- 
ment made  him  brutal.  He  was  heavy,  vulgar,  slipshod; 
he  stumbled  in  his  periods,  and  bungled  more  than  once  in 
his  guesses  when  the  folded  papers  with  the  names  were  put 
into  the  hat.  His  brow  wore  a  vicious,  sullen  look,  which 
seemed  to  deepen  the  expression  of  melancholy  patience  in 
his  companions.  I  trembled  for  my  friends.  The  Colonel 
had  told  me  that  his  bargain  with  his  impresario  was  a 
poor  one,  and  I  was  sure  that  if,  when  the  "Combination" 


ii6  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

was  in  a  run  of  luck,  as  it  had  been  at  P ,  his  dividend 

was  scanty,  he  was  paying  a  heavy  share  of  the  penalty  for 
the  present  eclipse  of  fortune.  I  sat  down  near  the  door, 
where  the  hall  was  shrouded  in  a  thrifty  dimness,  so  that 
I  had  no  fear  of  being  recognized.  The  Professor  evidently 
was  reckless — a  fact  which  rather  puzzled  me  in  so  shrewd 
a  man.  When  he  had  brought  his  own  performance  to  an 
unapplauded  close,  instead  of  making  his  customary  speech 
on  behalf  of  his  coadjutor,  he  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
gaped  in  the  face  of  his  audience.  But  the  Colonel,  after 
a  pause,  threw  himself  into  the  breach — or  rather  lowered 
himself  into  it  with  stately  gravity — and  addressed  his 
humble  listeners  (half  of  whom  were  asleep)  as  if  they  had 
been  the  flower  of  the  Intellect  and  Fashion.  But  if  his 
manner  was  the  old  one,  his  discourse  was  new.  He  had 
too  many  ideas  to  repeat  himself,  and,  although  those  which 
he  now  attempted  to  expound  were  still  above  the  level  of 
my  frivolous  apprehension,  this  unbargained  abundance  of 
inspiration  half  convinced  me  that  his  claim  to  original 
genius  was  just.  If  there  had  been  something  grotesquely 

sad  in  his  appeal  to  the  irresponsive  intellect  of  P ,  it 

was  almost  intolerably  dismal  to  sit  there  and  see  him  grap- 
pling with  the  dusky  void  of  Excelsior  Hall.  The  sleepers 
waked  up,  or  turned  over,  at  least,  when  Miss  Gifford  came 
forward.  She  wore,  as  yet,  neither  a  pink  dress  nor  an  arti- 
ficial garland,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  detected  here  and 
there  an  embryonic  hint  of  these  ornaments — a  ruffle  round 
her  neck,  a  colored  sash  over  her  black  dress,  a  curl  or  two 
more  in  her  hair.  But  her  manner  was  as  childish,  as  simple 
and  serene  as  ever;  the  empty  benches  had  no  weary  mean- 
ing for  her. 

I  confess  that  in  spite  of  my  personal  interest  in  my  friend, 
the  entertainment  seemed  wofully  long;  more  than  once 
I  was  on  the  point  of  departing,  and  awaiting  the  conclusion 
in  the  street.  But  I  had  not  the  heart  to  inflict  upon  the 
poor  Colonel  the  sight  of  a  retreating  spectator.  When 
at  last  my  twenty  companions  had  shuffled  away,  I  made  my 
way  to  the  platform  and  renewed  acquaintance  with  the 
trio.  The  Professor  nodded  with  uncompromising  familiar- 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  117 

ity,  the  Colonel  seemed  cordially  glad  to  see  me,  and  his 
daughter,  as  I  made  her  my  bow,  gazed  at  me  with  even 
more  than  usual  of  her  clear-eyed  frankness.  She  seemed  to 
wonder  what  my  reappearance  meant  for  them.  It  meant,  to 
begin  with,  that  I  went  the  next  day  to  see  the  Colonel  at  his 
lodging.  It  was  a  terribly  modest  little  lodging,  but  he  did 
me  the  honors  with  a  grace  which  showed  that  he  had  an 
old  habit  of  hospitality.  He  admitted  frankly  that  the 
"Combination"  had  lately  been  doing  a  very  poor  business, 
but  he  made  the  admission  with  a  gloomy  stoicism  which 
showed  me  that  he  had  been  looking  the  event  full  in  the 
face,  and  had  assented  to  it  helplessly.  They  had  gone 
their  round  in  the  country,  with  varying  success.  They  had 
the  misfortune  to  have  a  circus  keeping  just  in  advance  of 
them,  and  beside  the  gorgeous  pictorial  placards  of  this 
establishment,  their  own  superior  promises,  even  when  swim- 
ming in  a  deluge  of  exclamation  points,  seemed  pitifully 
vague.  "What  are  my  daughter  and  I,"  said  the  Colonel, 
"after  the  educated  elephant  and  the  female  trapezist?  What 
even  is  the  Professor,  after  the  great  American  clown?" 
Their  profits,  however,  had  been  kept  fairly  above  the  mini- 
mum, and  victory  would  still  have  hovered  about  their  ban- 
ners if  they  had  been  content  to  invoke  her  in  the  smaller 
towns.  The  Professor,  however,  in  spite  of  remonstrance, 
had  suddenly  steered  for  New  York,  and  what  New  York 
was  doing  for  them  I  had  seen  the  night  before.  The  last 
half  dozen  performances  had  not  paid  for  the  room  and  the 
gas.  The  Colonel  told  me  that  he  was  bound  by  contract 
for  five  more  lectures,  but  that  when  these  were  delivered  he 
would  dissolve  the  partnership.  The  Professor,  in  insisting 
on  coming  to  the  city,  had  shown  a  signal  want  of  shrewd- 
ness; and  when  his  shrewdness  failed  him,  what  had  you 
left?  What  to  attempt  himself,  the  Colonel  couldn't  im- 
agine. "At  the  worst,"  he  said,  "my  daughter  can  go  into 
an  asylum,  and  I  can  go  into  the  poor-house."  On  my 
asking  him  whether  his  colleague  had  yet  established,  ac- 
cording to  his  vow,  the  verities  of  "spiritual  magnetism,"  he 
stared  in  surprise  and  seemed  quite  to  have  forgotten  the 
Professor's  engagement  to  convert  him.  "Oh,  I've  let  him 


ii8  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

off,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "He  was  tipsy  when  he  made 
the  promise,  and  I  expect  to  hear  no  more  about  it." 

I  was  very  busy,  and  the  pensive  old  man  was  gloomy 
company;  but  his  characters  and  his  fortunes  had  such  a 
melancholy  interest  that  I  found  time  to  pay  him  several 
visits.  He  evidently  was  thankful  to  be  diverted  from  his 
sombre  self-consciousness  and  his  paternal  anxiety,  andr 
when  once  he  was  aroused  from  the  dogged  resignation  in 
which  he  seemed  plunged,  enjoyed  vastly  the  chance  to  ex- 
piate on  his  multitudinous  and  irrealizable  theories.  Most 
of  the  time  his  meaning  was  a  cloud  bank  to  me,  but  I 
listened,  assented,  applauded;  I  felt  the  charm  of  pure 
intellectual  passion.  I  incline  to  believe  that  he  had  ex- 
cogitated some  extremely  valuable  ideas.  We  took  long 
walks  through  the  crowded  streets.  The  Colonel  was  inde- 
fatigable, in  spite  of  his  leanness  and  pallor.  He  strode 
along  with  great  steps,  talking  so  loud,  half  the  time,  in  his 
high,  quavering  voice,  that  even  the  eager  pedestrians  in 
the  lower  latitudes  of  Broadway  slackened  pace  to  glance 
back  at  him.  He  declared  that  the  crowded  streets  gave  him 
a  strange  exhilaration,  and  the  mighty  human  hum  of  the 
great  city  quickened  his  heart-beats  almost  to  pain.  More 
than  once  he  stopped  short,  on  the  edge  of  a  curbstone  or 
in  the  middle  of  a  crossing,  and  laying  his  hand  on  my  arm, 
with  a  deeper  glow  beneath  his  white  eyebrows,  broke  into 
a  kind  of  rhapsody  of  transcendental  thought.  "It's  for  all 
these  millions  I  would  work,  if  they  would  let  me! "  he  cried. 
"It's  to  the  life  of  great  cities  my  schemes  are  addressed. 
It's  to  make  millions  wiser  and  better  that  I  stand  pleading 
my  cause  so  long  after  I  have  earned  my  rest."  One  day  he 
seemed  taciturn  and  preoccupied.  He  talked  much  less  than 
usual,  noticed  nothing,  and  walked  with  his  eyes  on  the  pave- 
ment. I  imagined  that,  in  a  phrase  with  which  he  had  made 
me  familiar,  he  had  caught  the  tail  of  an  idea  and  was  hold- 
ing it  fast,  in  spite  of  its  slippery  contortions.  As  we  neared 
his  lodging  at  the  end  of  our  walk,  he  stopped  abruptly  in 
the  middle  of  the  street,  and  I  had  to  give  him  a  violent  pull 
to  rescue  him  from  a  rattling  butcher's  cart.  When  we 
reached  the  pavement  he  stopped  again,  grasped  me  by  the 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  119 

hand,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  with  a  very  extraordinary 
exaltation.  We  were  at  the  top  of  the  shabby  cross-  street  in 
which  he  had  found  a  shelter.  A  row  of  squalid  tenements 
faced  us,  and  half  a  dozen  little  Irish  ragamuffins  were 
sprawling  beneath  our  feet,  between  their  doorways  and  the 
gutter.  "Eureka!  Eureka!"  he  cried.  "I've  found  it — I've 
found  it ! "  And  on  my  asking  him  what  he  had  found,"Some- 
thing  science  has  groped  for,  for  ages — the  solution  of  the  in- 
calculable! Perhaps,  too,  my  fortune;  certainly  my  immor- 
tality! Quick,  quick!  Before  it  vanishes  I  must  get  at  my 
pen."  And  he  hurried  me  along  to  his  dingy  little  dwelling. 
On  the  doorstep  he  paused.  "I  can't  tell  you  now,"  he  cried. 
"I  must  fling  it  down  in  black  and  white.  But  for  heaven's 
sake,  come  to-night  to  the  lecture,  and  in  the  first  flush  of 
apprehension  I  think  I  can  knock  off  a  statement ! "  To  the 
lecture  I  promised  to  come.  At  the  same  moment  I  raised 
my  eyes  and  beheld  in  the  window  of  the  Colonel's  apart- 
ment the  ominous  visage  of  Professor  Fargo.  I  had  been 
kindled  by  the  Colonel's  ardor,  but  somehow  I  was  suddenly 
chilled  by  the  presence  of  the  Professor.  I  feared  that,  be 
the  brilliancy  of  my  friend's  sudden  illumination  what  it 
might,  the  shock  of  meeting  his  unloved  confrere  under  his 
own  roof  would  loosen  his  grasp  of  his  idea.  I  found  a  pre- 
text for  keeping  him  standing  a  moment,  and  observed  that 
the  Professor  disappeared.  The  next  moment  the  door 
opened  and  he  stepped  forth.  He  had  put  on  his  hat,  I 
suppose,  hastily;  it  was  cocked  toward  one  side  with  a 
jauntiness  which  seemed  the  climax  of  his  habitual  swagger. 
He  was  evidently  in  better  spirits  than  when  I  listened  to 
him  at  Excelsior  Hall ;  but  neither  the  Professor's  smiles  nor 
his  frowns  were  those  of  an  honest  man.  He  bestowed  on 
my  companion  and  me  one  of  the  most  expansive  of  the 
former,  gave  his  hat  a  cock  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
was  about  to  pass  on.  But  suddenly  bethinking  himself, 
he  paused  and  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  yellow  ticket,' 
which  he  presented  to  me.  It  was  admission  to  Excelsior 
Hall. 

"If  you  can  use  this  to-night,"  he  said,  "I  think  you'll 
see  something  out  of  the  common."    This  intimation,  ac- 


120  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

companied  with  a  wink  of  extreme  suggestiveness,  seemed  to 
indicate  that  the  Professor  also,  by  a  singular  coincidence, 
had  had  a  flash  of  artistic  inspiration.  But  giving  me  no 
further  clue,  he  rapidly  went  his  way.  As  I  shook  hands  in 
farewell  with  the  Colonel,  I  saw  that  the  light  of  the  old 
man's  new  inspiration  had  gone  out  in  angry  wonderment 
over  the  Professor's  errand  with  his  daughter. 

I  can  hardly  define  the  vague  apprehensiveness  which  led 
me  to  make  that  evening  a  peculiarly  prompt  appearance  at 
Excelsior  Hall.  There  was  no  one  there  when  I  arrived,  and 
for  half  an  hour  the  solitude  remained  unbroken.  At  last 
a  shabby  little  man  came  in  and  sat  down  on  the  last  bench, 
in  the  shade.  We  remained  a  while  staring  at  the  white  wall 
behind  the  three  empty  chairs  of  the  performers  and  listen- 
ing to  the  gasburners,  which  were  hissing  with  an  expres- 
siveness which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  most  distress- 
ing. At  last  my  companion  left  his  place  and  strolled  down 
the  aisle.  He  stopped  before  the  platform,  turned  about, 
surveyed  the  capacity  of  the  room,  and  muttered  something 
between  a  groan  and  an  imprecation.  Then  he  came  back 
toward  me  and  stopped.  He  had  a  dirty  shirt-front,  a 
scrubby  beard,  a  small,  wrathful  black  eye,  and  a  nose  un- 
mistakably Judaic. 

"If  you  don't  want  to  sit  and  be  lectured  at  all  alone," 
he  said,  "I  guess  you'd  better  go." 

I  expressed  a  hope  that  some  one  would  turn  up  yet,  and 
said  that  I  preferred  to  remain,  in  any  event,  as  I  had  a 
particular  interest  in  the  performance. 

"A  particular  interest?"  he  cried;  "that's  about  what 
I've  got.  I've  got  the  rent  of  my  room  to  collect.  This 
thing  has  been  going  on  here  for  three  weeks  now,  and  I 
haven't  seen  the  first  dollar  of  my  profits.  It's  been  going 
down  hill  steady,  and  I  think  the  Professor,  and  the  Colo- 
nel, and  the  deaf  and  dumb  young  woman  had  better  shut 
up  shop.  They  ain't  appreciated;  they'd  better  try  some 
other  line.  There's  mighty  little  to  this  thing,  anyway;  it 
ain't  what  I  call  an  attractive  exhibition.  I've  got  an  offer 
for  the  premises  for  a  month  from  the  Canadian  Giantess, 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  121 

and  I  mean  to  ask  the  present  company  to  pay  me  down 
and  vacate." 

It  looked,  certainly,  as  if  the  "Combination"  would  have 
some  difficulty  in  meeting  its  engagements.  The  Professor's 
head  emerged  inquiringly  from  a  door  behind  the  stage  and 
disappeared,  after  a  brief  communion  with  the  vacuity  of 
the  scene.  In  a  few  minutes,  however,  the  customary  trio 
came  forth  and  seated  itself  gravely  on  the  platform.  The 
Professor  thrust  his  thumbs  into  his  waistcoat  and  drummed 
on  the  floor  with  his  toes,  as  if  it  cost  his  shrewdness  a  pain- 
ful effort  to  play  any  longer  at  expectation.  The  Colonel 
sat  stiff  and  solemn,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  The 
young  girl  gazed  forth  upon  the  ungrateful  void  with  her 
characteristically  irresponsible  tranquillity.  For  myself, 
after  listening  some  ten  minutes  more  for  an  advancing 
tread,  I  leaned  my  elbows  on  the  back  of  the  bench  before 
me  and  buried  my  head ;  I  couldn't  bear  any  longer  to  look 
at  the  Colonel.  At  last  I  heard  a  scramble  behind  me,  and 
looking  round,  saw  my  little  Jew  erecting  himself  on  his 
feet  on  a  bench. 

"Gentlemen!"  he  cried  out,  "I  don't  address  the  young 
woman;  I'm  told  she  can't  hear.  I  suppose  the  man  with 
the  biggest  audience  has  a  right  to  speak.  The  amount  of 
money  in  this  hall  to-night  is  just  thirty  cents — unless,  in- 
deed, my  friend  here  is  on  the  free  list.  Now  it  stands 
to  reason  that  you  can't  pay  your  night's  expenses  out  of 
thirty  cents.  I  think  we  might  as  well  turn  down  some  of 
this  gas;  we  can  still  see  to  settle  our  little  account.  To 
have  it  paid  will  gratify  me  considerably  more  than  any- 
thing you  can  do  there.  I  don't  judge  your  entertainment; 
I've  no  doubt  it's  a  very  smart  thing.  But  it's  very  evident 
it  don't  suit  this  city.  It's  too  intellectual.  I've  got  some- 
thing else  in  view — I  don't  mind  telling  you  it's  the  Cana- 
dian Giantess.  It  is  going  to  open  to-morrow  with  a  mati- 
nee, and  I  want  to  put  some  props  under  that  platform.  So 
you'd  better  pay  this  young  man  his  money  back,  and  go 
home  to  supper.  But  before  you  leave,  I'll  trouble  you  for 
the  sum  of  ninety-three  dollars  and  eighty-seven  cents." 

The  Professor  stroked  his  beard ;  the  Colonel  didn't  move. 


122  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

The  little  Jew  descended  from  his  perch  and  approached  the 
platform  with  his  bill  in  his  hand.  In  a  moment  I  followed 
him. 

"We're  a  failure,"  said  the  Professor,  at  last. .  "Very  well! 
I'm  not  discouraged;  I'm  a  practical  man.  I've  got  an  idea 
in  my  head  by  which,  six  months  hence,  I  expect  to  fill  the 
Academy  of  Music."  Then,  after  a  pause,  turning  to  his 
companion,  "Colonel,  do  you  happen  to  have  ninety- three 
dollars  and  eighty-seven  cents?" 

The  Colonel  slowly  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  him;  I 
shall  never  forget  the  look. 

"Seriously  speaking,"  the  Professor  went  on,  daunted  but 
for  an  instant,  "you're  liable  for  half  the  debt.  But  I'll 
assume  your  share  on  a  certain  condition.  I  have  in  my 
head  the  plan  of  another  entertainment.  Our  friend  here 
is  right;  we  have  been  too  intellectual.  Very  good!"  and 
he  nodded  at  the  empty  benches.  "I've  learned  the  lesson. 
Henceforth  I'm  going  to  be  sensational.  My  great  sensa- 
tion"— and  he  paused  a  moment  to  engage  again  the  eye  of 
the  Colonel,  who  presently  looked  vaguely  up  at  him — 
"is  this  young  lady! "  and  he  thrust  out  a  hand  toward 
Miss  Gifford.  "Allow  me  to  exhibit  your  daughter  for  a 
month,  in  my  own  way  and  according  to  my  own  notions, 
and  I  assume  your  debt." 

The  young  girl  dropped  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  but  kept 
her  place.  She  had  evidently  been  schooled.  The  Colonel 
slowly  got  up,  glaring  and  trembling  with  indignation.  I 
wished  to  cut  the  knot,  and  I  interrupted  his  answer.  "Your 
inducement  is  null,"  I  said  to  the  Professor.  "I  assume 
the  Colonel's  debt.  It  shall  be  paid  this  moment." 

Professor  Fargo  gave  an  honestly  gleeful  grin;  this  was 
better  even  than  the  Colonel's  assent.  "You  refuse  your 
consent  then,"  he  demanded  of  the  old  mar;  "to  your  daugh- 
ter's appearance  under  my  exclusive  management." 

"Utterly!"  cried  the  Colonel. 

"You  are  aware,  I  suppose,  that  she's  of  age?" 

The  Colonel  stared  at  me  with  a  groan.  "What  under 
heaven  is  the  fellow  coming  to?" 

"To  this!"  responded  the  Professor;  and  he  fixed  his  eye 


PROFESSOR  FARGO  123 

for  a  moment  on  the  young  girl.  She  immediately  looked  up 
at  him,  rose,  advanced,  and  stood  before  him.  Her  face  be- 
trayed no  painful  consciousness  of  what  she  was  doing,  and 
I  have  often  wondered  how  far,  in  her  strangely  simple 
mood  and  nature,  her  consciousness  on  this  occasion  was  a 
guilty  one.  I  never  ascertained.  This  was  the  most  un- 
erring stroke  I  had  seen  the  Professor  perform.  The  poor 
child  fixed  her  charming  eyes  on  his  gross,  flushed  face, 
and  awaited  his  commands.  She  was  fascinated ;  she  had  no 
will  of  her  own.  "You'll  be  so  good  as  to  choose,"  the  Pro- 
fessor went  on,  addressing  her  in  spite  of  her  deafness, 
"between  your  father  and  me.  He  says  we're  to  part.  I 
say  you're  to  follow  me.  What  do  you  say?" 

For  all  answer,  after  caressing  him  a  moment  with  her 
gentle  gaze,  she  dropped  before  him  on  her  knees.  The 
Colonel  sprang  toward  her  with  a  sort  of  howl  of  rage  and 
grief,  but  she  jumped  up,  •  retreated,  and  tripped  down  the 
steps  of  the  platform  into  the  room.  She  rapidly  made  her 
way  to  the  door.  There  she  paused  and  looked  back  at  us. 
Her  father  stood  staring  after  her  in  helpless  bewilderment. 
The  Professor  disappeared  into  the  little  ante-room  behind 
the  stage,  and  came  back  in  a  moment  jamming  his  hat  over 
his  eyes  and  carrying  the  young  girl's  shawl.  He  reached 
the  edge  of  the  platform,  and  then,  stopping,  shook  the  fore- 
finger with  the  turquoise  ring  at  the  Colonel. 

"What  do  you  say  now?"  he  cried.  "Is  spiritual  magnet- 
ism a  humbug?" 

The  little  Jew  rushed  after  him,  shrieking  and  brandishing 
the  unpaid  bill;  but  the  Professor  cleared  at  half  a  dozen 
strides  the  interval  which  divided  him  from  the  door,  caught 
the  young  girl  round  the  waist,  and  made  a  triumphant 
escape.  Half  an  hour  later  the  Colonel  and  I  left  the  little 
Jew  staring  distractedly  at  his  unretributed  gas-burners. 

I  walked  home  with  the  old  man,  and,  having  led  him  into 
his  shabby  refuge,  suffered  him  to  make  his  way  alone,  with 
groans,  and  tears,  and  imprecations,  into  his  daughter's 
empty  room.  At  last  he  came  tottering  out  again;  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  going  mad.  I  brought  him  away  by  force,  and 
he  passed  the  night  in  my  own  quarters.  He  had  spoken 


124  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

shortly  before  of  the  prospect  of  an  asylum  for  his  daugh- 
ter, but  it  became  evident  that  the  asylum  would  have  to  be 
for  him. 

I  sometimes  go  to  see  him.  He  spends  his  days  covering 
little  square  sheets  of  paper  with  algebraic  signs,  but  I  am 
assured  by  his  superintendent,  who  understands  the  matter, 
that  they  represent  no  coherent  mathematical  operation.  I 
never  treated  myself  to  the  "sensation"  of  attending  Profes- 
sor Fargo's  new  entertainment. 


AT  ISELLA 


MY  story  begins  properly,  I  suppose,  with  my  journey, 
and  my  journey  began  properly  at  Lucerne.  It  had 
been  on  the  point  of  beginning  a  number  of  times  before. 
About  the  middle  of  August  I  actually  started.  I  had  been 
putting  it  off  from  day  to  day  in  deference  to  the  opinion 
of  several  discreet  friends,  who  solemnly  assured  me  that 
a  man  of  my  make  would  never  outweather  the  rage  of  an 
Italian  August.  But  ever  since  deciding  to  winter  in  Italy, 
instead  of  subsiding  unimaginatively  upon  Paris,  I  had 
had  a  standing  quarrel  with  Switzerland.  What  was 
Switzerland  after  all?  Little  else  but  brute  Nature  surely, 
of  which  at  home  we  have  enough  and  to  spare.  What  we 
seek  in  Europe  is  Nature  refined  and  transmuted  to  art.  In 
Switzerland,  what  a  pale  historic  coloring;  what  a  penury  of 
relics  and  monuments!  I  pined  for  a  cathedral  or  a  gallery. 
Instead  of  dutifully  conning  my  Swiss  Badeker,  I  had  fret- 
fully deflavored  my  Murray's  North  Italy.  Lucerne  indeed 
is  a  charming  little  city,  and  I  had  learned  to  know  it  well. 
I  had  watched  the  tumbling  Reuss,  blue  from  the  melting 
pinnacles  which  know  the  blue  of  heaven,  come  rushing  and 
swirling  beneath  those  quaintly  timbered  bridges,  vaulted 
with  mystical  paintings  in  the  manner  of  Holbein,  and 
through  the  severed  mass  of  the  white,  compact  town.  I 
had  frequented  the  great,  bald,  half-handsome,  half-hideous 
church  of  the  Jesuit,  and  listened  in  the  twilight  to  the 
seraphic  choir  which  breathes  through  its  mighty  organ- tubes. 
I  had  taken  the  most  reckless  pleasure  in  the  fact  that  this 
was  Catholic  Switzerland.  I  had  strolled  and  restrolled 
across  the  narrow  market-place  at  Altorf,  and  kept  my 
countenance  in  the  presence  of  that  ludicrous  plaster-cast 
of  the  genius  loci  and  his  cross-bow.  I  had  peregrinated  fur- 
ther to  the  little  hamlet  of  Biirglen,  and  peeped  into  the 

125 


126  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

frescoed  chapel  which  commemorates  the  hero's  natal 
scene.  I  had  also  investigated  that  sordid  lake-side  sanctu- 
ary, with  its  threshold  lapped  by  the  waves  and  its  walls  de- 
filed by  cockneys,  which  consecrates  the  spot  at  which  the 
great  mountaineer,  leaping  from  among  his  custodians  in 
Gesler's  boat,  spurned  the  stout  skiff  with  his  invincible  heel. 
I  had  contemplated  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer  the  images 
of  the  immortal  trio,  authors  of  the  oath  of  liberation,  which 
adorned  the  pier  at  Brunnen.  I  had  sojourned  at  that  com- 
pact little  State  of  Gersau,  sandwiched  between  the  lake  and 
the  great  wall  of  the  Righi,  and  securely  niched  somewhere 
in  history  as  the  smallest  and  most  perpetual  of  republics. 
The  traveler's  impatience  hereabouts  is  quickened  by  his 
nearness  to  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  Alpine  highways.  Here 
he  may  catch  a  balmy  side-wind,  stirred  from  the  ranks  of 
southward-trooping  pilgrims.  The  Saint  Gothard  route 
begins  at  Lucerne,  where  you  take  your  place  in  the  diligence 
and  register  your  luggage.  I  used  to  fancy  that  a  great  wave 
of  Southern  life  rolled  down  this  mighty  channel  to  expire 
visibly  in  the  blue  lake,  and  ripple  to  its  green  shores.  I 
used  to  imagine  great  gusts  of  warm  wind  hovering  about 
the  coach  office  at  Fluelen,  scented  with  oleander  and 
myrtle.  I  used  to  buy  at  Fluelen,  to  the  great  peril  of  my 
digestion,  certain  villanous  peaches  and  plums,  offered  by 
little  girls  at  the  steamboat  landing,  and  of  which  it  was 
currently  whispered  that  they  had  ripened  on  those  further 
Italian  slopes. 

One  fine  morning  I  marked  my  luggage  Milan/  with  a 
great  imaginative  flourish  which  may  have  had  something 
to  do  with  my  subsequent  difficulty  in  recovering  it  in  the 
Lombard  capital,  banished  it  for  a  fortnight  from  sight  and 
mind,  and  embarked  on  the  steamboat  at  Lucerne  with  the 
interval's  equipment  in  a  knapsack.  It  is  noteworthy  how 
readily,  on  leaving  Switzerland,  I  made  my  peace  with  it. 
What  a  pleasure-giving  land  it  is,  in  truth!  Besides  the 
massive  glory  of  its  mountains,  how  it  heaps  up  the  meas- 
ure of  delight  with  the  unbargained  grace  of  town  and 
tower,  of  remembered  name  and  deed!  As  we  passed  away 
from  Lucerne,  my  eyes  lingered  with  a  fresher  fondness  than 


AT  ISELLA  127 

before  upon  an  admirable  bit  of  the  civic  picturesque— a 
great  line  of  mellow-stuccoed  dwellings,  with  verdurous 
water-steps  and  grated  basements,  rising  squarely  from  the 
rushing  cobalt  of  the  Reuss.  It  was  a  palpable  foretaste  of 
Venice.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  how  soon  I  began  to  look 
out  for  premonitions  of  Italy.  It  was  better  to  begin  too 
soon  than  too  late;  so,  to  miss  nothing,  I  began  to  note  "sen- 
sations" at  Altorf,  the  historic  heart  of  Helvetia.  I  re- 
member here  certain  formal  burgher  mansions,  standing 
back  from  the  dusty  highroad  beyond  spacious,  well-swept 
courts,  into  which  the  wayfarer  glances  through  immense 
gates  of  antique  wrought  iron.  I  had  a  notion  that  de- 
serted Italian  palazzos  took  the  lingering  sunbeams  at  some- 
what such  an  angle,  with  just  that  coarse  glare.  I  wondered 
of  course  who  lived  in  them,  and  how  they  lived,  and  what 
was  society  in  Altorf;  longing  plaintively,  in  the  manner  of 
roaming  Americans,  for  a  few  stray  crumbs  from  the  native 
social  board ;  with  my  fancy  vainly  beating  its  wings  against 
the  great  blank  wall,  behind  which,  in  travel-haunted 
Europe,  all  gentle  private  interests  nestle  away  from  intru- 
sion. Here,  as  everywhere,  I  was  struck  with  the  mere  sur- 
face-relation of  the  Western  tourist  to  the  soil  he  treads.  He 
filters  and  trickles  through  the  dense  social  body  in  every 
possible  direction,  and  issues  forth  at  last  the  same  virginal 
water  drop.  "Go  your  way,"  these  antique  houses  seemed  to 
say,  from  their  quiet  courts  and  gardens;  "the  road  is  yours 
and  welcome,  but  the  land  is  ours.  You  may  pass  and  stare 
and  wonder,  but  you  may  never  know  us."  The  Western 
tourist  consoles  himself,  of  course,  by  the  reflection  that 
the  gentry  of  Altorf  and  other  ancient  burghs  gain  more 
from  the  imagination  possibly  than  they  might  bestow 
upon  it. 

I  confess  that  so  long  as  I  remained  in  the  land,  as  I  did 
for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon — a  pure  afternoon  of  late  sum- 
mer, charged  with  mellow  shadows  from  the  teeming  ver- 
dure of  the  narrow  lowland,  beyond  which  to-morrow  and 
Italy  seemed  merged  in  a  vague  bright  identity — I  felt  that 
I  was  not  fairly  under  way.  The  land  terminates  at  Am- 
staeg,  where  I  lay  that  night.  Early  the  next  morning  I 


128  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

attacked  the  mighty  slopes.  Just  beyond  Amstaeg,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  a  narrow  granite  bridge  spans  the  last  moun- 
tain-plunge of  the  Reuss;  and  just  here  the  great  white 
road  begins  the  long  toil  of  its  ascent.  To  my  sense,  these 
mighty  Alpine  highways  have  a  grand  poetry  of  their  own. 
I  lack,  doubtless,  that  stout  stomach  for  pure  loneliness 
which  leads  your  genuine  mountaineer  to  pronounce  them 
a  desecration  of  the  mountain  stillness.  As  if  the  mountain 
stillness  were  not  inviolable!  Gleaming  here  and  there 
against  the  dark  sides  of  the  gorges,  unrolling  their  meas- 
ured bands  further  and  higher,  doubling  and  stretching  and 
spanning,  but  always  climbing,  they  break  it  only  to  the 
anxious  eye.  The  Saint  Gothard  road  is  immensely  long 
drawn,  and,  if  the  truth  be  told,  somewhat  monotonous.  As 
you  follow  it  to  its  uppermost  reaches,  the  landscape  takes 
on  a  darker  local  color.  Far  below  the  wayside,  the  yellow 
Reuss  tumbles  and  leaps  and  foams  over  a  perfect  torture- 
bed  of  broken  rock.  The  higher  slopes  lie  naked  and  raw, 
or  coated  with  slabs  of  gray.  The  valley  lifts  and  narrows 
and  darkens  into  the  scenic  mountain  pass  of  the  fancy.  I 
was  haunted  as  I  walked  by  an  old  steel  plate  in  a  French 
book  that  I  used  to  look  at  as  a  child  lying  on  my  stomach 
on  the  parlor  floor.  Under  it  was  written  "Saint  Gothard." 
I  remember  distinctly  the  cold,  gray  mood  which  this  pic- 
ture used  to  generate;  the  same  tone  of  feeling  is  produced 
by  the  actual  scene.  Coming  at  last  to  the  Devil's  Bridge, 
I  recognized  the  source  of  the  steel  plate  of  my  infancy. 
You  have  no  impulse  here  to  linger  fondly.  You  hurry  away 
after  a  moment's  halt,  with  an  impression  fierce  and  chaotic 
as  the  place  itself.  A  great  torrent  of  wind,  sweeping  from 
a  sudden  outlet  and  snatching  uproar  and  spray  from  the 
mad  torrent  of  water  leaping  in  liquid  thunderbolts  be- 
neath; a  giddy,  deafened,  deluged  stare,  with  my  two  hands 
to  my  hat,  and  a  rapid  shuddering  retreat — these  are  my 
chief  impressions  of  the  Devil's  Bridge.  If,  on  leaving  Am- 
staeg in  the  morning,  I  had  been  asked  whither  I  was  bend- 
ing my  steps,  "To  Italy!"  I  would  have  answered,  with  a 
grand  absence  of  detail.  The  radiance  of  this  broad  fact  had 
quenched  the  possible  side-lights  of  reflection.  As  I  ap- 


AT  ISELLA  129 

preached  the  summit  of  the  pass,  it  became  a  profoundly 
solemn  thought  that  I  might,  by  pushing  on  with  energy, 
lay  my  weary  limbs  on  an  Italian  bed.  There  was  something 
so  delightful  in  the  mere  protracted,  suspended  sense  of  ap- 
proach, that  it  seemed  a  pity  to  bring  it  to  so  abrupt  a  close. 
And  then  suppose,  metaphysical  soul  of  mine,  that  Italy 
should  not,  in  vulgar  parlance,  altogether  come  up  to  time? 
Why  not  prolong  awhile  the  possible  bliss  of  ignorance — of 
illusion?  Something  short  of  the  summit  of  the  Saint  Goth- 
ard  pass,  the  great  road  of  the  Furca  diverges  to  the  right, 
passes  the  Rhone  Glacier,  enters  the  Rhone  Valley,  and  con- 
ducts you  to  Brieg  and  the  foot  of  the  Simplon.  Reaching 
in  due  course  this  divergence  of  the  Furca  road,  I  tarried 
awhile  beneath  the  mountain  sky,  debating  whether  or  not 
delay  would  add  to  pleasure.  I  opened  my  Badeker  and 
read  that  within  a  couple  of  hours'  walk  from  my  halting- 
place  was  the  Albergo  di  San  Gothardo,  vaste  et  sombre 
auberge  Italienne.  To  think  of  being  at  that  distance  from 
a  vast,  sombre  Italian  inn!  On  the  other  hand,  there  were 
some  very  pretty  things  said  of  the  Simplon.  I  tossed  up  a 
napoleon;  the  head  fell  uppermost.  I  trudged  away  to  the 
right.  The  road  to  the  Furca  lies  across  one  of  those  high 
desolate  plateaux  which  represent  the  hard  prose  of  moun- 
tain scenery.  Naked  and  stern  it  lay  before  me,  rock  and 
grass  without  a  shrub,  without  a  tree,  without  a  grace — like 
the  dry  bed  of  some  gigantic  river  of  prehistoric  times. 

The  stunted  hamlet  of  Realp,  beside  the  road  dwarfed 
by  the  huge  scale  of  things,  seemed  litttle  more  than  a 
cluster  of  naked,  sun-blackened  bowlders.  It  contained  an 
inn,  however,  and  the  inn  contained  the  usual  Alpine  larder 
of  cold  veal  and  cheese,  and,  as  I  remember,  a  very  affable 
maid-servant,  who  spoke  excellent  lowland  French,  and  con- 
fessed in  the  course  of  an  after-dinner  conversation  that 
the  winters  in  Realp  were  un  peu  tristes.  This  conversation 
took  place  as  I  sat  resting  outside  the  door  in  the  late  after- 
noon, watching  the  bright,  hard  light  of  the  scene  grow  gray 
and  cold  beneath  a  clear  sky,  and  wondering  to  find 
humanity  lodged  in  such  an  exaltation  of  desolation. 

The  road  of  the  Furca,  as  I  discovered  the  next  morning, 


130  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

is  a  road  and  little  else.  Its  massive  bareness,  However, 
gives  it  an  incontestable  grandeur.  The  broad,  serpentine 
terrace  uncoils  its  slanting  cordons  with  a  multiplicity  of 
curves  and  angles  and  patient  reaches  of  circumvention, 
which  give  it  the  air  of  some  wanton  revelry  of  engineering 
genius.  Finally,  after  a  brief  level  of  repose,  it  plunges  down 
to  the  Rhone  Glacier.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  this 
great  spectacle  on  the  finest  day  of  the  year.  Its  perfect 
beauty  is  best  revealed  beneath  the  scorching  glare  of  an 
untempered  sun.  The  sky  was  without  a  cloud — the  air  in- 
credibly lucid.  The  glacier  dropped  its  billowy  sheet — a 
soundless  tumult  of  whiteness,  a  torrent  of  rolling  marble- 
straight  from  the  blue  of  heaven  to  the  glassy  margin  of  the 
road.  It  seems  to  gather  into  its  bosom  the  whole  diffused 
light  of  the  world,  so  that  round  about  it  all  objects  lose 
their  color.  The  rocks  and  hills  stand  sullen  and  neutral; 
the  lustre  of  the  sky  is  turned  to  blackness.  At  the  little 
hotel  near  the  glacier  I  waited  for  the  coach  to  Brieg,  and 
started  thitherward  in  the  early  afternoon,  sole  occupant  of 
the  coupi. 

Let  me  not,  however,  forget  to  commemorate  the  French 
priest  whom  we  took  in  at  one  of  the  squalid  villages  of  the 
dreary  Haut-Valais,  through  which  on  that  bright  afternoon 
we  rattled  so  superbly.  It  was  a  Sunday,  and  throughout 
this  long  dark  chain  of  wayside  hamlets  the  peasants  were 
straddling  stolidly  about  the  little  central  place  in  the  hid- 
eous festal  accoutrements  of  the  rustic  Swiss.  He  came  forth 
from  the  tavern,  gently  cleaving  the  staring  crowd,  accom- 
panied by  two  brother  ecclesiastics.  These  were  portly, 
elderly  men;  he  was  young  and  pale  and  priestly  in  the  last 
degree.  They  had  a  little  scene  of  adieux  at  the  coach  door. 
They  whispered  gently,  gently  holding  each  other's  hands 
and  looking  lovingly  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  then  the 
two  elders  saluted  their  comrade  on  each  cheek,  and,  as  we 
departed,  blew  after  him  just  the  least  little  sacramental 
kiss.  It  was  all,  dramatically  speaking,  delightfully  low 
in  tone.  Before  we  reached  Brieg  the  young  priest  had 
gained  a  friend  to  console  him  for  those  he  had  lost.  He 
proved  to  be  a  most  amiable  person;  full  of  homely  frank- 


AT  ISELLA  131 

ness  and  appealing  innocence  of  mundane  things;  and  in- 
vested withal  with  a  most  pathetic  air  of  sitting  there  as  a 
mere  passive  object  of  transmission — a  simple  priestly  par- 
ticle in  the  great  ecclesiastical  body,  transposed  by  the  logic 
of  an  inscrutable  thither!  and  thus!  On  learning  that  I 
was  an  American,  he  treated  me  so  implicitly  as  a  travelled 
man  of  the  world,  that  he  almost  persuaded  me  for  the  time 
I  was  one.  He  was  on  pins  and  needles  with  his  sense  of 
the  possible  hazards  of  travel.  He  asked  questions  the  most 
innocently  saugrenues.  He  was  convinced  on  general 
grounds  that  our  driver  was  drunk,  and  that  he  would  surely 
overturn  us  into  the  Rhone.  He  seemed  possessed  at  the 
same  time  with  a  sort  of  schoolboy  relish  for  the  profane 
humor  of  things.  Whenever  the  coach  made  a  lurch  toward 
the  river-bank  or  swung  too  broadly  round  a  turn,  he  would 
grasp  my  arm  and  whisper  that  our  hour  had  come;  and 
then,  before  our  pace  was  quite  readjusted,  he  would  fall 
to  nursing  his  elbows  and  snickering  gently  to  himself.  It 
seemed  altogether  a  larger  possibility  than  any  he  had  been 
prepared  for  that  on  his  complaining  of  the  cold  I  should 
offer  him  the  use  of  my  overcoat.  Of  this  and  of  other  per- 
sonal belongings  he  ventured  to  inquire  the  price,  and  in- 
deed seemed  oppressed  with  the  sudden  expensiveness  of 
the  world.  But  now  that  he  was  fairly  launched  he  was 
moving  in  earnest.  He  was  to  reach  Brieg,  if  possible,  in 
time  for  the  night  diligence  over  the  Simplon,  which  was  to 
deposit  him  at  the  Hospice  on  the  summit. 

By  a  very  early  hour  the  next  morning  I  had  climbed 
apace  with  the  sun.  Brieg  was  far  below  me  in  the  valley. 
I  had  measured  an  endless  number  of  the  giant  elbows  of 
the  road,  and  from  the  bosky  flank  of  the  mountain  I  looked 
down  at  nestling  gulfs  of  greenness,  cool  with  shade;  at 
surging  billows  of  forest  crested  with  the  early  brightness; 
at  slopes  in  light  and  cliffs  in  shadow;  at  all  the  heaving 
mountain  zone  which  belongs  to  the  verdant  nearness  of 
earth;  and  then  straight  across  to  the  sacred  pinnacles  which 
take  their  tone  from  heaven. 

If  weather  could  bless  an  enterprise,  mine  was  blessed 
beyond  words.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Nature  had  taken  an 


132  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

interest  in  my  little  project  and  was  determined  to  do  the 
thing  handsomely.  As  I  mounted  higher,  the  light  flung  its 
dazzling  presence  on  all  things.  The  air  stood  still  to  take 
it;  the  green  glittered  within  the  green,  the  blue  burned  be- 
yond it;  the  dew  on  the  forests  gathered  to  dry  into  massive 
crystals,  and  beyond  the  brilliant  void  of  space  the  clear 
snow-fields  stood  out  like  planes  of  marble  inserted  in  a 
field  of  lapis-lazuli.  The  Swiss  side  of  the  Simplon  has  the 
beauty  of  a  boundless  luxury  of  green;  the  view  remains 
gentle  even  in  its  immensity.  The  ascent  is  gradual  and 
slow,  and  only  when  you  reach  the  summit  do  you  get  a 
sense  of  proper  mountain  grimness.  On  this  favoring  day 
of  mine  the  snowy  horrors  of  the  opposite  Aletsch  Glacier 
seemed  fairly  to  twinkle  with  serenity.  It  seemed  to  me 
when  I  reached  the  Hospice  that  I  had  been  winding  for 
hours  along  the  inner  hollow  of  some  mighty  cup  of  verdure 
toward  a  rim  of  chiselled  silver  crowned  with  topaz.  At 
the  Hospice  I  made  bold  to  ask  leave  to  rest.  It  stands  on 
the  bare  topmost  plateau  of  the  pass,  bare  itself  as  the  spot 
it  consecrates,  and  stern  as  the  courage  of  the  pious  brothers 
who  administer  its  charities.  It  broods  upon  the  scene  with 
the  true,  bold,  convent  look,  with  ragged  yellow  walls  and 
grated  windows,  striving  to  close  in  human  weakness  from 
blast  and  avalanche  as  in  valleys  and  cities  to  close  it  in 
from  temptation  and  pollution.  A  few  St.  Bernard  dogs 
were  dozing  outside  in  the  chilly  sunshine.  I  climbed  the 
great  stone  steps  which  lift  the  threshold  above  the  snow- 
land,  and  tinkled  the  bell  of  appeal.  Here  for  a  couple  of 
hours  I  was  made  welcome  to  the  cold,  hard  fare  of  the  con- 
vent. There  was  to  my  mind  a  solemn  and  pleasant  fitness 
in  my  thus  entering  church-burdened  Italy  through  the  por- 
tal of  the  church,  for  from  the  convent  door  to  the  plain  of 
Lombardy  it  was  all  to  be  downhill  work.  I  seemed  to  feel 
on  my  head  the  hands  of  especial  benediction,  and  to  hear 
in  my  ears  the  premonition  of  countless  future  hours  to  be 
passed  in  the  light  of  altar-candles.  The  inner  face  of  the 
Hospice  is  well-nigh  as  cold  and  bare  as  the  face  it  turns 
defiant  to  the  Alpine  snows.  Huge  stone  corridors  and  un- 
garnished  rooms,  in  which  poor  unacclimatized  friars  must 


AT  ISELLA  133 

sit  aching  and  itching  with  chilblains  in  high  midsummer; 
everywhere  that  peculiar  perfume  of  churchiness — the  odeur 
de  sacristie  and  essence  of  incense — which  impart  through- 
out the  world  an  especial  pungency  to  Catholicism.  Hav- 
ing the  good  fortune,  as  it  happened,  to  be  invited  to  dine 
with  the  Prior,  I  found  myself  in  fine  priestly  company. 
A  dozen  of  us  sat  about  the  board  in  the  greasy,  brick- 
paved  refectory,  lined  with  sombre  cupboards  of  ponderous 
crockery,  all  in  stole  and  cassock  but  myself.  Several  of 
the  brothers  were  in  transitu  from  below.  Among  them  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  greeting  my  companion  in  the  coupe  to 
Brieg,  slightly  sobered  perhaps  by  his  relapse  into  the  cler- 
ical ranks,  but  still  timidly  gracious  and  joyous.  The 
Prior  himself,  however,  especially  interested  me,  so  every 
inch  was  he  a  prior — a  priest  dominant  and  militant.  He 
was  still  young,  and  familiar,  I  should  say,  with  the  passions 
of  youth;  tall  and  powerful  in  frame,  stout-necked  and 
small-headed,  with  a  brave  beak  of  a  nose  and  closely 
placed,  fine,  but  sinister  eyes.  The  simple,  childish  cut 
of  his  black  cassock,  with  its  little  linen  band  across  his 
great  pectoral  expanse  as  he  sat  at  meat,  seemed  to  denote 
a  fantastical,  ironical  humility.  Was  it  a  mere  fancy  of 
a  romantic  Yankee  tourist  that  he  was  more  evil  than 
gentle?  Heaven  grant,  I  mused  as  I  glanced  at  him,  that 
his  fierce  and  massive  manhood  be  guided  by  the  Lord's 
example.  What  was  such  a  man  as  that  doing  up  there 
on  a  lonely  mountain  top,  watching  the  snow  clouds  from 
closed  windows  and  doling  out  restorative  cognac  to  frost- 
bitten wagoners?  He  ought  to  be  down  in  the  hard,  dense 
world,  fighting  and  sinning  for  his  mother  Church.  But 
he  was  one  who  could  bide  his  time.  Unless  I'm  scribbling 
nonsense,  it  will  come.  In  deference  probably  to  the  eso- 
teric character  of  a  portion  of  the  company,  our  conversa- 
tion at  dinner  was  not  rigidly  clerical.  In  fact,  when  my 
attention  wandered  back  to  its  theme,  I  found  the  good 
brothers  were  talking  of  Alexandre  Dumas  with  a  delightful 
air  of  protest  and  hearsay,  and  a  spice  of  priestly  malice. 
The  great  romancer,  I  believe,  had  among  his  many  fictions 
somewhere  promulgated  an  inordinate  fiction  touching  the 


134  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

manners  and  customs  of  the  Hospice.  The  game  being 
started,  each  of  them  said  his  say  and  cast  his  pebble, 
weighted  always  with  an  "on  dit"  and  I  was  amazed  to 
find  they  were  so  well  qualified  to  reprobate  the  author 
of  "Monte  Cristo."  When  we  had  dined  my  young  French- 
man came  and  took  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  in  great 
triumph  over  the  whole  convent,  delighted  to  have  something 
to  show  me — me  who  had  come  from  America  and  had  lent 
him  my  overcoat.  When  at  last  I  had  under  his  auspices 
made  my  farewell  obeisance  to  the  Prior,  and  started  on 
my  downward  course,  he  bore  me  company  along  the  road. 
But  before  we  lost  sight  of  the  Hospice  he  gave  me  his 
fraternal  blessing.  "Allans!"  he  was  pleased  to  say,  "the 
next  time  I  shall  know  an  American";  and  he  gathered  up 
his  gentle  petticoat,  and,  as  I  looked  behind,  I  saw  his 
black  stockings  frolicking  back  over  the  stones  by  a  short 
cut  to  the  monastery. 

I  should  like  to  be  able  to  tell  the  veracious  tale  of  that 
divine  afternoon.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  trace  the  soft 
stages  by  which  those  rugged  heights  melt  over  into  a 
Southern  difference.  Now  at  last  in  good  earnest  I  began 
to  watch  for  the  symptoms  of  Italy.  Now  that  the  long 
slope  began  to  tend  downward  unbroken,  it  was  not  absurd 
to  fancy  a  few  adventurous  tendrils  of  Southern  growth 
might  have  crept  and  clambered  upward.  At  a  short  dis- 
tance beyond  the  Hospice  stands  the  little  village  of  Simplon, 
where  I  believe  the  coach  stops  for  dinner;  the  uttermost 
outpost,  I  deemed  it,  of  the  lower  world,  perched  there  like 
an  empty  shell,  with  its  murmur  not  yet  quenched,  tossed 
upward  and  stranded  by  some  climbing  Southern  wave. 
The  little  inn  at  the  Italian  end  of  the  street,  painted  in  a 
bright  Italian  medley  of  pink  and  blue,  must  have  been 
decorated  by  a  hand  which  had  learned  its  cunning  in  the 
land  of  the  fresco.  The  Italian  slope  of  the  Simplon  road 
commands  a  range  of  scenery  wholly  different  from  the 
Swiss.  The  latter  winds  like  a  thread  through  the  blue 
immensity;  the  former  bores  its  way  beneath  crag  and 
cliff,  through  gorge  and  mountain  crevice.  But  though 
its  channel  narrows  and  darkens,  Italy  nears  and  nears  none 


AT  ISELLA  135 

the  less.  You  suspect  it  first  in — what  shall  I  say? — the 
growing  warmth  of  the  air,  a  fancied  elegance  of  leaf  and 
twig;  a  little  while  yet,  and  they  will  curl  and  wanton  to 
your  heart's  content.  The  famous  Gorge  of  Gando,  at  this 
stage  of  the  road,  renews  the  sombre  horrors  of  the  Via 
Mala.  The  hills  close  together  above  your  head,  and  the 
daylight  filters  down  their  corrugated  sides  from  three  inches 
of  blue.  The  mad  torrent  of  the  Dauria,  roaring  through 
the  straitened  vale,  fills  it  forever  with  a  sounding  din,  as — 
to  compare  poetry  to  prose — a  railway  train  a  tunnel. 
Emerging  from  the  Gorge  of  Gando,  you  fairly  breathe 
Italian  air.  The  gusts  of  a  mild  climate  come  wandering 
along  the  road  to  meet  you.  Lo!  suddenly,  by  the  still 
wayside,  I  came  upon  a  sensation:  a  little  house  painted  a 
hot  salmon  color,  with  a  withered  pine-twig  over  the  door 
in  token  of  entertainment,  and  above  this  inscribed  in 
square  chirography — literally  in  Italics — Osteria!  I  stopped 
devotedly  to  quaff  a  glass  of  sour  wine  to  Italy  gained.  The 
place  seemed  wrapped  in  a  desolation  of  stillness,  save  that  as 
I  stood  and  thumped  the  doorpost,  the  piping  cry  of  a  baby 
rose  from  the  loft  above  and  tickled  the  mountain  echoes. 
Anon  came  clattering  down  the  stairs  a  nursing  mother  of 
peasants ;  she  gave  me  her  only  wine,  out  of  her  own  bottle, 
out  of  her  only  glass.  While  she  stood  to  wait  on  me,  the 
terrible  cry  of  her  infant  became  so  painful  that  I  bade 
her  go  and  fetch  him  before  he  strangled ;  and  in  a  moment 
she  reappeared,  holding  him  in  her  arms,  pacified  and  utter- 
ly naked.  Standing  there  with  the  little  unswaddled  child 
on  her  breast,  and  smiling  simply  from  her  glowing  brow, 
she  made  a  picture  which,  in  coming  weeks,  I  saw  imitated 
more  or  less  vividly  over  many  an  altar  and  in  many  a 
palace.  Onward  still,  through  its  long-drawn  evolutions, 
the  valley  keeps  darkly  together,  as  if  to  hold  its  own  to 
the  last  against  the  glittering  breadth  of  level  Lombardy. 
In  truth,  I  had  gained  my  desire.  If  Italy  meant  stifling 
heat,  this  was  the  essence  of  Italy.  The  afternoon  was 
waning,  and  the  early  shadows  of  the  valley  deepening  into 
a  dead  summer  night.  But  the  hotter  the  better,  and  the 
more  Italian!  At  last,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  glimpsed  the 


136  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

first  houses  of  a  shallow  village,  pressed  against  the  moun- 
tain wall.  It  was  Italy — the  Dogana  Isella!  so  I  quick- 
ened my  jaded  steps.  I  met  a  young  officer  strolling 
along  the  road  in  sky-blue  trousers,  with  a  moustache  &  la 
Victor  Emanuel,  puffing  a  cigarette,  and  yawning  with  the 
sensuous  ennui  of  Isella — the  first  of  that  swarming  com- 
pany of  warriors  whose  cerulean  presence,  in  many  a  rich 
street-scene,  in  later  hours  touched  up  so  brightly  the  fore- 
ground of  the  picture.  A  few  steps  more  brought  me  to 
the  Dogana,  and  to  my  first  glimpse  of  those  massive  and 
shadowy  arcades  so  delightfully  native  to  the  South.  Here 
it  was  my  privilege  to  hear  for  the  first  time  the  music  of 
an  Italian  throat  vibrate  upon  Italian  air.  "Nothing  to 
declare — niente?"  asked  the  dark-eyed  functionary,  emerg- 
ing from  the  arcade.  "Niente"  seemed  to  me  delicious; 
I  would  have  told  a  fib  for  the  sake  of  repeating  the  word. 
Just  beyond  stood  the  inn,  which  seemed  to  me  somehow 
not  as  the  inns  of  Switzerland.  Perched  something  aloft 
against  the  hillside,  a  vague  light  tendency  to  break  out 
into  balconies  and  terraces  and  trellises  seemed  to  enhance 
its  simple  fagade.  Its  open  windows  had  an  air  of  being 
familiar  with  Southern  nights;  with  balmy  dialogues,  pos- 
sibly, passing  between  languid  ladies  leaning  on  the  iron 
rails,  and  lounging  gentlemen,  star-gazing  from  the  road 
beneath  at  their  mistresses'  eyes.  Heaven  grant  it  should 
not  be  fastidiously  neat,  scrubbed  and  furbished  and  frotte 
like  those  prosy  taverns  on  the  Swiss  lakes!  Heaven  was 
generous.  I  was  ushered  into  a  room  whereof  the  ceiling 
was  frescoed  with  flowers  and  gems  and  cherubs,  but  whose 
brick-tiled  floor  would  have  been  vastly  amended  by  the 
touch  of  a  wet  cloth  and  broom.  After  repairing  my 
toilet  within  the  limits  of  my  resources,  I  proceeded  to 
order  supper.  The  host,  I  remember,  I  decreed  to  have 
been  the  chef  de  cuisine  of  some  princely  house  of  Lom- 
bardy.  He  wore  a  grizzled  moustache  and  a  red  velvet 
cap,  with  little  gold  ear-rings.  I  could  see  him,  under 
proper  inspiration,  whip  a  towel  round  his  waist,  turn  back 
his  sleeves,  and  elaborate  a  masterly  pasticcio.  "I  shall 


AT  ISELLA  137 

take  the  liberty,"  he  said,  "of  causing  monsieur  to  be 
served  at  the  same  time  with  a  lady." 

"With  a  lady— an  English  lady?"  I  asked. 

"An  Italian  lady.  She  arrived  an  hour  ago."  And  mine 
host  paused  a  moment  and  honored  me  with  a  genial  smile. 
"She  is  alone — she  is  young — she  is  pretty." 

Stolid  child  of  the  North  that  I  was,  surely  my  smile  of 
response  was  no  match  for  his!  But,  nevertheless,  in  my 
heart  I  felt  that  fortune  was  kind.  I  went  forth  to  stroll 
down  the  road  while  my  repast  was  being  served,  and  while 
daylight  still  lingered,  to  reach  forward  as  far  as  possible 
into  the  beckoning  land  beyond.  Opposite  the  inn  the 
mountain  stream,  still  untamed,  murmured  and  tumbled 
between  the  stout  parapet  which  edged  the  road  and  the 
wall  of  rock  which  enclosed  the  gorge.  I  felt  indefinably 
curious,  expectant,  impatient.  Here  was  Italy,  at  last; 
but  what  next?  Was  I  to  eat  my  supper  and  go  contentedly 
to  bed?  Was  there  nothing  I  could  see,  or  do,  or  feel?^ 
I  had  been  deeply  moved,  but  I  was  primed  for  a  deeper 
emotion  still.  Would  it  come?  Along  the  road  toward 
Domo  d'Ossola  the  evening  shadows  deepened  and  settled, 
and  filled  the  future  with  mystery.  The  future  would  take 
care  of  itself;  but  ah,  for  an  intenser  present!  I  stopped 
and  gazed  wistfully  along  the  broad  dim  highway.  At  this 
moment  I  perceived  beyond  me,  leaning  against  the  parapet, 
the  figure  of  a  woman,  alone  and  in  meditation.  Her  two 
elbows  rested  on  the  stone  coping,  her  two  hands  were  laid 
against  her  ears  to  deaden  the  din  of  the  stream,  and  her 
face,  between  them,  was  bent  over  upon  the  waters.  She 
seemed  young  and  comely.  She  was  bare-headed;  a  black 
organdy  shawl  was  gathered  round  her  shoulders ;  her  dress, 
of  a  light  black  material,  was  covered  with  a  multitude  of 
little  puffs  and  flounces,  trimmed  and  adorned  with  crim- 
son silk.  There  was  an  air  of  intense  meditation  in  her 
attitude ;  I  passed  near  her  without  her  perceiving  me.  I  ob- 
served her  black-brown  tresses,  braided  by  a  cunning  hand, 
but  slightly  disarranged  by  travel,  and  the  crumpled  dis- 
order of  her  half-fantastic  dress.  She  was  a  lady  and  an 
Italian;  she  was  alone,  young,  and  pretty;  was  she  possibly 


138  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

my  destined  companion?  A  few  yards  beyond  the  spot  at 
which  she  stood,  I  retraced  my  steps;  she  had  now  turned 
round.  As  I  approached  her  she  looked  at  me  from  a  pair 
of  dark  expressive  eyes.  Just  a  hint  of  suspicion  and  de- 
fiance I  fancied  that  at  this  moment  they  expressed.  "Who 
are  you,  what  are  you,  roaming  so  close  to  me?"  they  seemed 
to  murmur.  We  were  alone  in  this  narrow  pass,  I  a  new 
comer,  she  a  daughter  of  the  land;  moreover,  her  glance 
had  almost  audibly  challenged  me;  instinctively,  therefore, 
and  with  all  the  deference  I  was  master  of,  I  bowed.  She 
continued  to  gaze  for  an  instant;  then  suddenly  she  per- 
ceived, I  think,  that  I  was  utterly  a  foreigner  and  presum- 
ably a  gentleman,  and  hereupon,  briefly  but  graciously,  she 
returned  my  salute.  I  went  my  way  and  reached  the  hotel. 
As  I  passed  in,  I  saw  the  fair  stranger  come  slowly  along 
the  road  as  if  also  to  enter  the  inn.  In  the  little  dining- 
room  I  found  mine  host  of  the  velvet  cap  bestowing  the 
finishing  touches  upon  a  small  table  set  en  tete-a-tete  for 
two.  I  had  heard,  I  had  read,  of  the  gracious  loquacity  of 
the  Italian  race  and  their  sweet  familiarities  of  discourse. 
Here  was  a  chance  to  test  the  quality  of  the  matter.  The 
landlord,  having  poised  two  fantastically  folded  napkins 
directly  vis-a-vis,  glanced  at  me  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye 
which  seemed  to  bespeak  recognition  of  this  cunning  ar- 
rangement. 

"A  propos"  I  said,  "this  lady  with  whom  I  am  to  dine? 
Does  she  wear  a  black  dress  with  red  flounces?" 

"Precisely,  Signore.  You  have  already  had  a  glimpse 
of  her?  A  pretty  woman,  isn't  it  so?" 

"Extremely  pretty.    Who  is  the  lady?" 

"Ah!"  And  the  landlord  turned  back  his  head  and 
thrust  out  his  chin,  with  just  the  least  play  of  his  shoulders. 
"That's  the  question!  A  lady  of  that  age,  with  that  face 
and  those  red  flounces,  who  travels  alone — not  even  a  maid 
— you  may  well  ask  who  she  is!  She  arrived  here  an  hour 
ago  in  a  carriage  from  Domo  d'Ossola,  where,  her  vetturino 
told  me,  she  had  arrived  only  just  before  by  the  common 
coach  from  Arona.  But  though  she  travels  by  the  common 
vehicle,  she  is  not  a  common  person ;  one  may  see  that 


AT  ISELLA  139 

with  half  an  eye.  She  comes  in  great  haste,  but  ignorant 
of  the  ways  and  means.  She  wishes  to  go  by  the  diligence 
to  Brieg.  She  ought  to  have  waited  at  Domo,  where  she 
could  have  found  a  good  seat.  She  didn't  even  take  the 
precaution  of  engaging  one  at  the  office  there.  When  the 
diligence  stops  here,  she  will  have  to  fare  as  she  can.  She 
is  pretty  enough  indeed  to  fare  very  well — or  very  ill; 
isn't  it  so,  Signore?"  demanded  the  worthy  Bonifazio,  as 
I  believe  he  was  named.  "Ah,  but  behold  her  strolling 
along  the  road,  bare-headed,  in  those  red  flounces!  What 
is  one  to  say?  After  dusk,  with  the  dozen  officers  in  gar- 
rison here  watching  the  frontier!  Watching  the  ladies  who 
come  and  go,  per  Dio!  Many  of  them,  saving  your  pres- 
ence, Signore,  are  your  own  compatriots.  You'll  not  deny 
that  some  of  them  are  a  little  free — a  little  bold.  What 
will  you  have?  Out  of  their  own  country!  What  else  were 
the  use  of  travel?  But  this  one;  eh!  she's  not  out  of  her 
own  country  yet.  Italians  are  Italians,  Signore,  up  to  the 
frontier — eh!  eh!"  And  the  Signor  Bonifazio  indulged  in 
a  laugh  the  most  goguenard.  "Nevertheless,  I  have  not  kept 
an  inn  these  twenty  years  without  learning  to  know  the 
sheep  from  the  goats.  This  is  an  honorable  lady,  Signore; 
it  is  for  that  reason  that  I  have  offered  to  you  to  sup  with 
her.  The  other  sort!  one  can  always  sup  with  them!" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  my  host's  fluent  commentary  was 
no  meagre  foretaste  of  Italian  frankness.  I  approached  the 
window.  The  fair  object  of  our  conversation  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  stone  staircase  which  ascended  to  the  inn  door, 
with  the  toe  of  her  shoe  resting  upon  the  first  step.  She  was 
looking  fixedly  and  pensively  up  the  road  toward  Switzer- 
land. Her  hand  clasped  the  knob  of  the  iron  balustrade 
and  her  slight  fingers  played  an  impatient  measure.  She 
had  begun  to  interest  me.  Her  dark  eyes,  intent  upon  the 
distant  turn  of  the  road,  seemed  to  expand  with  a  vague 
expectancy.  Whom  was  she  looking  for?  Of  what  romance 
of  Italy  was  she  the  heroine?  The  maUre  d' hotel  appeared 
at  the  head  of  the  steps,  and  with  a  flourish  of  his  napkin 
announced  that  the  Signora  was  served.  She  started  a  little 
and  then  lightly  shrugged  her  shoulders.  As  the  same  mo- 


I4o  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

ment  I  caught  her  eye  as  I  stood  gazing  from  the  window. 
With  a  just  visible  deepening  of  her  color,  she  slowly  as- 
cended the  steps.  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  sense  of 
being  dingy,  travel-stained,  unpresentable  to  a  woman  so 
charming.  I  hastily  retreated  to  my  room,  and,  survey- 
ing myself  in  my  dressing-glass,  objurgated  fortune  that 
I  lacked  the  wherewithal  to  amend  my  attire.  But  I  could 
at  least  change  my  cravat.  I  had  no  sooner  replaced  my 
black  neck-tie  by  a  blue  one  than  it  occurred  to  me  that  the 
Signora  would  observe  the  difference;  but  what  then?  It 
would  hardly  offend  her.  With  a  timid  hope  that  it  might 
faintly  gratify  her  as  my  only  feasible  tribute  to  the  honor 
of  her  presence,  I  returned  to  the  dining-room.  She  was 
seated  and  had  languidly  addressed  herself  to  the  contents 
of  her  soup-plate.  The  worthy  Bonifazio  had  adorned  our 
little  table  with  four  lighted  candles  and  a  centre-piece 
of  Alpine  flowers.  As  I  installed  myself  opposite  my  com- 
panion, after  having  greeted  her  and  received  a  murmured 
response,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  sitting  down  to  one 
of  those  factitious  repasts  which  are  served  upon  the  French 
stage,  when  the  table  has  been  moved  close  to  the  footlights, 
and  the  ravishing  young  widow  and  the  romantic  young 
artist  begin  to  manipulate  the  very  nodus  of  the  comedy. 
Was  the  Signora  a  widow?  Our  attendant,  with  his  crim- 
son cap,  his  well-salted  discourse,  his  light-handed  gestures, 
and  his  smile  from  behind  the  scenes,  might  have  passed 
for  a  classic  valet  de  theatre.  I  had  the  appetite  of  a  man 
who  had  been  walking  since  sunrise,  but  I  found  ample 
occasion,  while  I  plied  my  knife  and  fork,  to  inspect  the 
Signora.  She  merely  pretended  to  eat;  and  to  appeal,  per- 
haps, from  the  overflattering  intentness  of  my  vision,  she 
opened  an  idle  conversation  with  Bonifazio.  I  listened  ad- 
miringly, while  the  glancing  shuttle  of  Italian  speech  passed 
rapidly  from  lip  to  lip.  It  was  evident,  frequently,  that 
she  remained  quite  heedless  of  what  he  said,  losing  herself 
forever  in  a  kind  of  fretful  intensity  of  thought.  The  re- 
past was  long  and  multifarious,  and  as  he  time  and  again 
removed  her  plate  with  its  contents  untouched,  mine  host 
would  catch  my  eye  and  roll  up  his  own  with  an  air  of  mock 


AT  ISELLA  141 

commiseration,  turning  back  his  thumb  at  the  same  moment 
toward  the  region  of  his  heart.  "Un  coup  de  tete"  he  took 
occasion  to  murmur  as  he  reached  over  me  to  put  down  a 
dish.  But  the  more  I  looked  at  the  fair  unknown,  the  more 
I  came  to  suspect  that  the  source  of  her  unrest  lajy  deeper 
than  in  the  petulance  of  wounded  vanity.  Her  face  wore 
to  my  eye  the  dignity  of  a  deep  resolution — a  resolution 
taken  in  tears  and  ecstasy.  She  was  some  twenty-eight 
years  of  age,  I  imagined;  though  at  moments  a  painful 
gravity  resting  upon  her  brow  gave  her  the  air  of  a  woman 
who  in  youth  has  anticipated  old  age.  How  beautiful  she 
was  by  natural  gift  I  am  unable  to  say;  for  at  this  especial 
hour  of  her  destiny,  her  face  was  too  serious  to  be  fair  and 
too  interesting  to  be  plain.  She  was  pale,  worn,  and  weary- 
looking;  but  in  the  midst  of  her  weariness  there  flickered 
a  fierce  impatience  of  delay  and  forced  repose.  She  was  a 
gentle  creature,  turned  brave  and  adventurous  by  the  stress 
of  fate.  It  burned  bright  in  her  soft,  grave  eyes,  this  long- 
ing for  the  larger  freedom  of  the  tarrying  morrow.  A  dozen 
chance  gestures  indicated  the  torment  of  her  spirit — the 
constant  rapping  of  her  knife  against  the  table,  her  bread 
crumbed  to  pieces  but  uneaten,  the  frequent  change  from 
posture  to  posture  of  her  full  and  flexible  figure,  shifting 
through  that  broad  range  of  attitude — the  very  gamut  of 
gracefulness — familiar  to  Italian  women. 

The  repast  advanced  without  my  finding  a  voice  to  ad- 
dress her.  Her  secret  puzzled  me,  whatever  it  was,  but  I 
confess  that  I  was  afraid  of  it.  A  coup  de  tetel  Heaven 
only  knew  how  direful  a  coup!  My  mind  was  flooded  by 
the  memory  of  the  rich  capacity  of  the  historic  womanhood 
of  Italy.  I  thought  of  Lucrezia  Borgia,  of  Bianca  Capello, 
of  the  heroines  of  Stendhal.  My  fair  friend  seemed  invested 
with  an  atmosphere  of  candid  passion,  which  placed  her 
quite  apart  from  the  ladies  of  my  own  land.  The  gallant 
soul  of  the  Signer  Bonifazio,  however,  had  little  sufferance 
for  this  pedantic  view  of  things.  Shocked  by  my  apparent 
indifference  to  the  privilege  of  my  rare  position,  he  thrust 
me  by  the  shoulders  into  the  conversation.  The  Signora 


142  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

eyed  me  for  a  moment  not  ungraciously,  and  then,  "Do  you 
understand  Italian?"  she  asked. 

I  had  come  to  Italy  with  an  ear  quite  unattuned,  of 
course,  to  the  spoken  tongue;  but  the  mellow  cadence  of 
the  Signora's  voice  rang  in  upon  my  senses  like  music. 
"I  understand  you"  I  said. 

She  looked  at  me  gravely,  with  the  air  of  a  woman  used 
to  receive  compliments  without  any  great  flutter  of  vanity. 
"Are  you  English?"  she  abruptly  asked. 

"English  is  my  tongue." 

"Have  you  come  from  Switzerland?" 

"He  has  walked  from  Brieg!"  proclaimed  our  host. 

"Ah,  you  happy  men,  who  can  walk — who  can  run — who 
needn't  wait  for  coaches  and  conductors!"  The  Signora 
uttered  these  words  with  a  smile  of  acute  though  transient 
irony.  They  were  followed  by  a  silence.  Bonifazio,  see- 
ing the  ice  was  broken,  retired  with  a  flourish  of  his  napkin 
and  a  contraction  of  his  eyelids  as  much  in  the  nature  of 
a  wink  as  his  respect  for  me,  for  the  Signora,  and  for 
himself  allowed.  What  was  the  motive  of  the  Signora's 
impatience?  I  had  a  presentiment  that  I  should  learn.  The 
Italians  are  confidential;  of  this  I  had  already  received 
sufficient  assurance;  and  my  companion,  with  her  lucid 
eye  and  her  fine  pliable  lips,  was  a  bright  example  of  the 
eloquent  genius  of  her  race.  She  sat  idly  pressing  with 
her  fork  the  crimson  substance  out  of  a  plateful  of  figs, 
without  raising  them  to  her  lips. 

"You  are  going  over  into  Switzerland,"  I  said,  "and  you 
are  in  haste." 

She  eyed  me  a  minute  suspiciously.    "Yes,  I'm  in  haste!" 

"I,  who  have  just  begun  to  feel  the  charm  of  Italy,"  I 
rejoined,  "can  hardly  understand  being  in  haste  to  leave  it." 

"The  charm  of  Italy!"  cried  the  Signora,  with  a  slightly 
cynical  laugh.  "Foreigners  have  a  great  deal  to  say  about 
it." 

"But  you,  a  good  Italian,  certainly  know  what  we  mean." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders — an  operation  she  performed 
more  gracefully  than  any  woman  I  ever  saw,  unless  it  be 
Mile.  Madeleine  Brohan  of  the  Theatre  Frangais.  "For 


AT  ISELLA  143 

me  it  has  no  charm!  I  have  been  unhappy  here.  Happi- 
ness for  me  is  there!"  And  with  a  superb  nod  of  her  head 
she  indicated  the  Transalpine  world.  Then,  as  if  she  had 
spoken  a  thought  too  freely,  she  rose  suddenly  from  her 
chair  and  walked  away  to  the  window.  She  stepped  out 
on  the  narrow  balcony,  looked  intently  for  an  instant  up 
and  down  the  road  and  at  the  band  of  sky  above  it,  and 
then  turned  back  into  the  room.  I  sat  in  my  place,  divicjed 
between  my  sense  of  the  supreme  sweetness  of  figs  and  my 
wonder  at  my  companion's  mystery.  "It's  a  fine  night!" 
she  said.  And  with  a  little  jerk  of  impatience  she  flung 
herself  into  an  arm-chair  near  the  table.  She  leaned  back, 
with  her  skirt  making  a  great  wave  around  her  and  her 
arms  folded.  I  went  on  eating  figs.  There  was  a  long 
silence.  "You've  eaten  at  least  a  dozen  figs.  You'll  be 
ill!"  said  the  Signora  at  last. 

This  was  friendly  in  its  frankness.  "Ah,  if  you  only 
knew  how  I  enjoy  them!"  I  cried,  laughing.  "They  are 
the  first  I  ever  tasted.  And  this  the  first  Asti  wine.  We 
don't  have  either  in  the  North.  If  figs  and  Asti  wine  are 
for  anything  in  your  happiness,  Signora,"  I  added,  "you  had 
better  not  cross  the  Alps.  See,  the  figs  are  all  gone.  Do 
you  think  it  would  hurt  me  to  have  any  more?" 

"Truly,"  cried  the  Signora,  "I  don't  know  what  you 
English  are  made  of!" 

"You  think  us  very  coarse,  and  given  up  altogether  to 
eating  and  drinking?"  She  gave  another  shrug  tempered 
by  a  smile.  "To  begin  with,  I  am  not  an  Englishman. 
And  in  the  second  place,  you'd  not  call  me  coarse  if  you 
knew — if  you  only  knew  what  I  feel  this  evening.  Eh! 
such  thick-coming  fancies!" 

"What  are  your  fancies?"  she  demanded,  with  a  certain 
curiosity  gleaming  in  her  dark  eye. 

"I  must  finish  this  Asti!"  This  I  proceeded  to  do.  I 
am  very  glad  I  did,  moreover,  as  I  borrowed  from  its  mild 
and  luscious  force  something  of  the  courage  with  which  I 
came  to  express  myself.  "I  don't  know  how  it  is  that  I'm 
talking  Italian  at  such  a  rate.  Somehow  the  words  come 


144  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

to  me.  I  know  it  only  from  books.  I  have  never  talked 
it." 

"You  speak  as  well,"  the  Signora  graciously  affirmed,  "as 
if  you  had  lived  six  months  in  the  country." 

"Half  an  hour  in  your  society,"  said  I,  "is  as  profitable 
as  six  months  elsewhere." 

"Bravo!"  she  responded.  "An  Italian  himself  couldn't 
say  it  better." 

Sitting  before  me  in  the  vague  candlelight,  beautiful, 
pale,  dark-browed,  sad,  the  Signora  seemed  to  me  an  incor- 
porate image  of  her  native  land.  I  had  come  to  pay  it  my 
devotions.  Why  not  perform  them  at  her  feet?  "I  have 
come  on  a  pilgrimage,"  I  said.  "To  understand  what  I 
mean,  you  must  have  lived,  as  I  have  lived,  in  a  land  beyond 
the  seas,  barren  of  romance  and  grace.  This  Italy  of  yours, 
on  whose  threshold  I  stand,  is  the  home  of  history,  of  beauty, 
of  the  arts — of  all  that  makes  life  splendid  and  sweet.  Italy, 
for  us  dull  strangers,  is  a  magic  word.  We  cross  ourselves 
when  we  pronounce  it.  We  are  brought  up  to  think  that 
when  we  have  earned  leisure  and  rest — at  some  bright  hour, 
when  fortune  smiles — we  may  go  forth  and  cross  oceans  and 
mountains  and  see  on  Italian  soil  the  primal  substance — 
the  Platonic  'idea' — of  our  consoling  dreams  and  our  richest 
fancies.  I  have  been  brought  up  in  these  thoughts.  The 
happy  hour  has  come  to  me — Heaven  be  praised! — while  I 
am  still  young  and  strong  and  sensitive.  Here  I  sit  for  the 
first  time  in  the  enchanted  air  in  which  love  and  faith  and 
art  and  knowledge  are  warranted  to  become  deeper  passions 
than  in  my  own  chilly  clime.  I  begin  to  behold  the  promise 
of  my  dreams.  It's  Italy.  How  can  I  tell  you  what  that 
means  to  one  of  us?  Only  see  already  how  fluent  and  ten- 
der of  speech  I've  become.  The  air  has  a  perfume;  every- 
thing that  enters  my  soul,  at  every  sense,  is  a  suggestion,  a 
promise,  a  performance.  But  the  best  thing  of  all  is  that 
I  have  met  you,  bella  donna!  If  I  were  to  tell  you  how 
you  seem  to  me,  you  would  think  me  either  insincere  or; 
impertinent.  EccoJ" 

She  listened  to  me  without  changing  her  attitude  or  with- 
out removing  her  fathomless  eyes  from  my  own.  Their 


AT  ISELLA  145 

blue-black  depths,  indeed,  seemed  to  me  the  two  wells  of 
poetic  unity,  from  which  I  drew  my  somewhat  transcendental 
allocution.  She  was  puzzled,  I  think,  and  a  little  amused, 
but  not  offended.  Anything  from  an  Inglese!  But  it  was 
doubtless  grateful  to  feel  these  rolling  waves  of  sentiment 
break  softly  at  her  feet,  chained  as  she  was,  like  Andromeda, 
to  the  rock  of  a  lonely  passion.  With  an  admirable  absence 
of  minauderie,  "How  is  it  that  I  seem  to  you,  Signore?" 
she  asked. 

I  left  my  place  and  came  round  and  stood  in  front  of  her. 
"Ever  since  I  could  use  my  wits,"  I  said,  "I  have  done  little 
else  than  fancy  dramas  and  romances  and  love-tales,  and 
lodge  them  in  Italy.  You  seem  to  me  as  the  heroine  of  all 
my  stories." 

There  was  perhaps  a  slight  movement  of  coquetry  in  her 
reply:  "Your  stories  must  have  been  very  dull,  Signore," 
and  she  gave  a  sad  smile. 

"Nay,  in  future,"  I  said,  "my  heroines  shall  be  more  like 
you  than  ever.  Where  do  you  come  from?"  I  seated  myself 
in  the  chair  she  had  quitted.  "But  it's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness," I  added.  "From  anywhere.  In  Milan  or  Venice, 
in  Bologna  or  Florence,  Rome  or  Naples,  every  grave  old 
palazzo  I  pass,  I  shall  fancy  your  home.  I'm  going  the 
whole  length  of  Italy.  My  soul,  what  things  I  shall  see!" 

"You  please  me,  Signore.  I  say  to  you  what  I  wouldn't 
say  to  another.  I  came  from  Florence.  Shall  you  surely 
go  there?" 

"I  have  reasons,"  I  said,  "for  going  there  more  than 
elsewhere.  In  Florence" — and  I  hesitated,  with  a  momen- 
tary horror  at  my  perfect  unreserve — "in  Florence  I  am  to 
meet  my — my  promessa  sposa." 

The  Signora's  face  was  instantly  irradiated  by  a  gener- 
ous smile.  "Ah!"  she  said,  as  if  now  for  the  first  time 
she  really  understood  me. 

"As  I  say,  she  has  been  spending  the  summer  at  the 
Baths  of  Lucca.  She  comes  to  Florence  with  her  mother 
in  the  middle  of  September." 

"Do  you  love  her?" 

"Passionately." 


146  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"Extremely.  But  not  like  you.  Very  fair,  with  blue 
eyes." 

"How  long  since  you  have  seen  her?" 

"A  year." 

"And  when  are  you  to  be  married?" 

"In  November,  probably,  in  Rome." 

She  covered  me  for  a  moment  with  a  glance  of  the  largest 
sympathy.  "Ah,  what  happiness!"  she  cried  abruptly. 

"After  our  marriage,"  I  said,  "we  shall  go  down  to 
Naples.  Do  you  know  Naples?" 

Instead  of  answering,  she  simply  gazed  at  me,  and  her 
beautiful  eyes  seemed  to  grow  larger  and  more  liquid. 
Suddenly,  while  I  sat  in  the  benignant  shadow  of  her  vision, 
I  saw  the  tears  rise  to  her  lids.  Her  face  was  convulsed 
and  she  burst  into  sobs.  I  remember  that  in  my  amaze- 
ment and  regret  I  suddenly  lost  my  Italian.  "Dearest 
lady,"  I  cried  in  my  mother  tongue,  "forgive  me  that  I 
have  troubled  you.  Share  with  me  at  least  the  sorrow 
that  I  have  aroused."  In  an  instant,  however,  she  had 
brushed  away  her  tears  and  her  face  had  recovered  its  pale 
composure.  She  tried  even  to  smile. 

"What  will  you  think  of  me?"  she  asked.  "What  do  you 
think  of  me  already?" 

"I  think  you  are  an  extremely  interesting  woman.  You 
are  in  trouble.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you, 
pray  say  the  word." 

She  gave  me  her  hand.  I  was  on  the  point  of  raising 
it  to  my  lips.  "No — d  VAnglaise"  she  said,  and  she  lightly 
shook  my  own.  "I  like  you — you're  an  honest  man — you 
don't  try  to  make  love  to  me.  I  should  like  to  write  a  note 
to  your  promessa  sposa  to  tell  her  she  may  trust  you. 
You  can't  help  me.  I  have  committed  myself  to  God  and 
the  Holy  Virgin.  They  will  help  me.  Besides,  it's  only  a 
little  longer.  Eh,  it's  a  long  story,  Signore!  What  is  said 
in  your  country  of  a  woman  who  travels  alone  at  night  with- 
out even  a  servant?" 

"Nothing  is  said.     It's  very  common." 

"Ah!    women  must  be  very  happy  there,  or  very  un- 


AT  ISELLA  147 

happy!  Is  it  never  supposed  of  a  woman  that  she  has  a 
lover?  That  is  worst  of  all." 

"Fewer  things  are  'supposed'  of  women  there  than  here. 
They  live  more  in  the  broad  daylight  of  life.  They  make 
their  own  law." 

"They  must  be  very  good  then — or  very  bad.  So  that 
a  man  of  fancy  like  you,  with  a  taste  for  romance,  has  to 
come  to  poor  Italy,  where  he  can  suppose  at  leisure!  But 
we  are  not  -all  romance,  I  assure  you.  With  me,  I  promise 
you,  it's  no  light-minded  coup  de  tete"  And  the  Signora 
enforced  her  candid  assurance  with  an  almost  imperious 
nod.  "I  know  what  I'm  doing.  Eh!  I'm  an  old  woman. 
I've  waited  and  waited.  But  now  my  hour  has  cornel' 
Ah,  the  heavenly  freedom  of  it!  Ah,  the  peace — the  joy! 
Just  God,  I  thank  thee!"  And  sitting  back  in  her  chair, 
she  folded  her  hands  on  her  bosom  and  closed  her  eyes  in 
a  kind  of  ecstasy.  Opening  them  suddenly,  she  perceived, 
I  suppose,  my  somewhat  intent  and  dilated  countenance. 
Breaking  then  into  a  loud,  excited  laugh,  "How  you  stare 
at  me!"  she  cried.  "You  think  I've  at  least  poisoned  my 
husband.  No,  he's  safe  and  sound  and  strong!  On  the 
contrary,  I've  forgiven  him.  I  forgive  him  with  all  my 
heart,  with  all  my  soul;  there!  I  call  upon  you  to  witness 
it.  I  bear  him  no  rancor.  I  wish  never  to  think  of  him 
again;  only  let  me  never  see  him — never  hear  of  him!  Let 
him  never  come  near  me:  I  shall  never  trouble  him!  Hark!" 
She  had  interrupted  herself  and  pressed  her  hand  with  a 
startled  air  upon  my  arm.  I  listened,  and  in  a  moment  my 
ear  caught  the  sound  of  rolling  wheels  on  the  hard  highroad. 
With  a  great  effort  at  self-composure,  apparently,  she  laid 
her  finger  on  her  lips.  "If  it  should  be  he — if  it  should 
be  he!"  she  murmured.  "Heaven  preserve  me!  Do  go 
to  the  window  and  see." 

I  complied,  and  perceived  a  two-horse  vehicle  advancing 
rapidly  from  the  Italian  quarter.  "It's  a  carriage  of  some 
sort  from  Italy,"  I  said.  "But  what — whom  do  you  fear?" 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  "That  my  husband  should  over- 
take me/'  and  she  gave  a  half-frantic  glance  round  the  room, 
like  a  hunted  stag  at  bay.  "If  it  should  be  he,  protect 


148  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

me!  Do  something,  say  something — anything!  Say  I'm 
not  fit  to  go  back  to  him.  He  wants  me  because  he  thinks 
me  good.  Say  I'm  not  good — to  your  knowledge.  Oh, 
Signore — Holy  Virgin!"  Recovering  herself,  she  sank  into 
a  chair,  and  sat  stiff  and  superb,  listening  to  the  deepening 
sound  of  the  wheels.  The  vehicle  approached,  reached  the 
inn,  passed  it,  and  went  on  to  the  Dogana. 

"You're  safe,"  I  said.  "It's  not  a  posting-chaise,  but  a 
common  wagon  with  merchandise." 

With  a  hushed  sigh  of  relief  she  passed  her  hand  over 
her  brow,  and  then  looking  at  me:  "I  have  lived  these  three 
days  in  constant  terror.  I  believe  in  my  soul  he  has  come 
in  pursuit  of  me;  my  hope  is  in  my  having  gained  timel 
through  his  being  absent  when  I  started.  My  nerves  are 
broken.  I  have  neither  slept  nor  eaten,  nor  till  now  have 
I  spoken.  But  I  must  speak!  I'm  frank;  it's  good  to  take 
a  friend  when  you  find  one." 

I  confess  that  to  have  been  thus  freely  admitted  by  the 
fair  fugitive  into  the  whirling  circle  of  her  destiny  was  one 
of  the  keenest  emotions  of  my  life.  "I  know  neither  the 
motive  of  your  flight  nor  the  goal  of  your  journey,"  I  an- 
swered; "but  if  I  may  help  you  and  speed  you,  I  will  joy- 
fully turn  back  from  the  threshold  of  Italy  and  give  you 
whatever  furtherance  my  company  may  yield.  To  go  with 
you,"  I  added,  smiling,  "will  be  to  remain  in  Italy,  I  assure 
you." 

She  acknowledged  my  offer  with  a  glance  more  potent 
than  words.  "I'm  going  to  a  friend,"  she  said,  after  a 
silence.  "To  accept  your  offer  would  be  to  make  friendship 
cheap.  He  is  lying  ill  at  Geneva;  otherwise  I  shouldn't  be 
thus!  But  my  head  is  on  fire.  This  room  is  close;  it 
smells  of  supper.  Do  me  the  favor  to  accompany  me  into 
the  air." 

She  gathered  her  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  I  offered 
her  my  arm,  and  we  passed  into  the  entry  toward  the  door. 
In  the  doorway  stood  mine  host,  with  his  napkin  under  his 
arm.  He  drew  himself  up  as  we  approached,  and,  as  if  to 
deprecate  a  possible  imputation  of  scandal,  honored  us 
with  a  bow  of  the  most  ceremonious  homage.  We  de- 


AT  ISELLA  149 

scended  the  steps  and  strolled  along  the  road  toward  the 
Swiss  frontier.  A  vague  remnant  of  daylight  seemed  to 
linger  imprisoned  in  the  narrow  gorge.  We  passed  the 
Dogana  and  left  the  village  behind  us.  My  thoughts  re- 
verted as  we  went,  to  the  aching  blank  of  my  fancy  as  I 
entered  Isella  an  hour  before.  It  seemed  to  palpitate  now 
with  a  month's  experience.  Beyond  the  village  a  narrow 
bridge  spans  the  stream  and  leads  to  a  path  which  climbs 
the  opposite  hillside.  We  diverged  from  the  road  and  lin- 
gered on  the  bridge  while  the  sounding  torrent  gushed 
beneath  us,  flashing  in  the  light  of  the  few  stars  which 
sparkled  in  our  narrow  strip  of  sky,  like  diamonds  tacked 
upon  a  band  of  velvet.  I  remained  silent,  thinking  a  pas- 
sive silence  the  most  graceful  tribute  to  the  Signora's  gen- 
erous intentions.  "I  will  tell  you  all!"  she  said  at  last. 
"Do  you  think  me  pretty?  But  you  needn't  answer.  The 
less  you  think  so,  the  more  you'll  say  it.  I  was  pretty!  I 
don't  pretend  to  be  so  now.  I  have  suffered  too  much.  I 
have  a  miserable  fear  that  when  he  sees  me,  after  these 
three  years,  he'll  notice  the  loss  of  my  beauty.  But,  pove- 
rinol  he  is  perhaps  too  ill  to  notice  anything.  He  is  young 
— a  year  younger  than  I — twenty-seven.  He  is  a  painter; 
he  has  a  most  beautiful  talent.  He  loved  me  four  years 
ago,  before  my  marriage.  He  was  a  friend  of  my  poor 
brother,  who  was  fatally  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Mentana, 
where  he  fought  with  Garibaldi.  My  brother,  Giuseppino, 
was  brought  home  with  his  wound;  he  died  in  a  week. 
Ernesto  came  to  make  a  drawing  of  his  face  before  we  lost 
it  forever.  It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  seen  him, 
but  it  was  the  first  time  we  understood  each  other.  I  was 
sitting  by  poor  Giuseppino's  bedside,  crying — crying!  He, 
too,  cried  while  he  drew  and  made  great  blisters  on  the 
paper.  I  know  where  to  look  for  them  still.  They  loved 
each  other  devotedly.  I,  too,  had  loved  my  brother!  for 
my  mother  was  dead,  and  my  father  was  not  a  mother — 
not  even  a  father!  Judge  for  yourself!  We  placed  to- 
gether the  love  which  each  of  us  had  borne  for  Giuseppino, 
and  it  made  a  great  love  for  each  other.  It  was  a  mis- 
.  fortune;  but  how  could  we  help  it?  He  had  nothing  but 


150  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

his  talent,  which  as  yet  was  immature.  I  had  nothing  at 
all  but  the  poor  little  glory  of  my  father's  being  a  Marchese, 
without  a  soldo,  and  my  prettiness!  But  you  see  what  has 
become  of  that!  My  father  was  furious  to  have  given  his 
only  son  to  that  scoundrel  of  a  Garibaldi,  for  he  is  of  that 
way  of  thinking.  You  should  have  heard  the  scene  he 
made  me  when  poor  Ernesto  in  despair  asked  leave  to  marry 
me.  My  husband,  whom  I  had  never  seen  or  at  least  never 
noticed,  was  at  that  time  in  treaty  for  my  hand.  By  his 
origin  he  was  little  better  than  a  peasant,  but  he  had  made 
a  fortune  in  trade,  and  he  was  very  well  pleased  to  marry  a 
marchesina.  It's  not  every  man  who  is  willing  to  take  a 
penniless  girl;  it  was  the  first  chance  and  perhaps  the  best. 
So  I  was  given  over  blindfold,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to  that 
brute.  Eh!  what  I  hadn't  brought  in  cash  I  had  to  pay 
down  in  patience.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  what  I've  suffered 
these  three  years,  it  would  bring  tears  to  your  eyes — 
Inglese  as  you  are.  But  they  are  things  which  can't  be 
told.  He  is  a  peasant,  with  the  soul  of  a  peasant — the 
taste,  the  manner,  the  vices  of  a  peasant.  It  was  my 
great  crime  that  I  was  proud.  I  had  much  to  be  proud 
of.  If  I  had  only  been  a  woman  of  his  own  sort!  to  pay 
him  in  his  own  coin!  Ernesto,  of  course,  had  been  alto- 
gether suppressed.  He  proposed  to  me  to  escape  with  him 
before  my  marriage,  and  I  confess  to  you  that  I  would 
have  done  it  if  I  could.  I  tried  in  vain;  I  was  too  well 
watched.  I  implored  him  then  to  go  away  till  better  days; 
and  he  at  last  consented  to  go  to  Paris  and  pursue  his 
studies.  A  week  after  my  marriage  he  came  to  bid  me 
farewell.  My  husband  had  taken  me  to  Naples,  to  make 
me  believe  I  was  not  wretched.  Ernesto  followed  me,  and  I 
contrived  to  see  him.  It  lasted  three  minutes  by  the  clock: 
I  have  not  seen  him  since.  In  three  years  I  have  had  five 
letters  from  him;  they  are  here  in  my  dress.  I  am  sure  of 
his  love;  I  don't  need  to  have  him  write,  to  tell  me.  I  have 
answered  him  twice.  These  letters — seven  in  all,  in  three 
years! — are  all  my  husband  has  to  reproach  me  with.  He 
is  furious  at  not  having  more.  He  knows  of  course  that 
I  love  another;  he  knows  that  to  bear  such  things  a  woman 


AT  ISELLA  151 

must  borrow  strength  somewhere.  I  have  had  faith,  but 
it  has  not  been  all  faith!  My  husband  has  none;  nothing 
is  sacred  to  him,  not  the  Blessed  Virgin  herself.  If  you 
were  to  hear  the  things  he  says  about  the  Holy  Father! 
I  have  waited  and  waited.  I  confess  it,  I  have  hoped  at 
times  that  my  husband  would  die.  But  he  has  the  health 
of  a  peasant.  He  used  to  strike  me — to  starve  me — to  lock 
me  up  without  light  or  fire.  I  appealed  to  my  father,  but, 
I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  my  father  is  a  coward!  Heaven  for- 
give me!  I'm  saying  dreadful  things  here!  But,  ah,  Si- 
gnore,  let  me  breathe  at  last!  I've  waited  and  waited,  as  I 
say,  for  this  hour!  Heaven  knows  I  have  been  good. 
Though  I  stand  here  now,  I  have  not  trifled  with  my  duties. 
It's  not  coquetry!  I  determined  to  endure  as  long  as  I 
could,  and  then  to  break — to  break  forever!  A  month  ago 
strength  and  courage  left  me;  or  rather,  they  came  to  me! 
I  wrote  to  Ernesto  that  I  would  come  to  him.  He  answered 
that  he  would  come  down  to  meet  me — if  possible  at  Milan. 
Just  afterwards  he  wrote  me  in  a  little  scrawl  in  pencil 
that  he  had  been  taken  ill  in  Geneva,  and  that  if  I  could 
I  must  come  alone,  before  he  got  worse.  Here  I  am  then, 
alone,  pursued,  frantic  with  ignorance  and  dread.  Heaven 
only  keep  him  till  I  come.  I  shall  do  the  rest!  Exactly 
how  I  left  home,  I  can't  tell  you.  It  has  been  like  a  dream! 
My  husband — God  be  praised! — was  obliged  to  make  a 
short  absence  on  business,  of  which  I  took  advantage.  My 
great  trouble  was  getting  a  little  money.  I  never  have 
any.  I  sold  a  few  trinkets  for  a  few  francs — hardly  enough! 
The  people  saw  I  was  too  frightened  to  make  a  stand, 
so  that  they  cheated  me.  But  if  I  can  only  come  to  the 
end!  I'm  certain  that  my  husband  has  pursued  me.  Once 
I  get  to  Switzerland,  we  can  hide.  Meanwhile  I'm  in  a 
fever.  I've  lost  my  head.  I  began  very  well,  but  all  this 
delay  has  so  vexed  and  confused  me.  I  hadn't  even  the 
wit  to  secure  a  place  in  the  coach  at  Domo  d'Ossola.  But 
I  shall  go,  if  I  have  to  sit  on  the  roof — to  crouch  upon 
the  doorstep.  If  I  had  only  a  little  more  money,  so  that 
I  needn't  wait  for  coaches.  To  overtake  me  my  husband, 
for  once  in  his  life,  won't  count  his  lire!" 


I52  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

I  listened  with  a  kind  of  awe  to  this  torrent  of  passionate 
confidence.  I  had  got  more  even  than  I  had  bargained 
for.  The  current  of  her  utterance  seemed  to  gather  volume 
as  it  came,  and  she  poured  out  her  tragic  story  with  a  sort 
of  rapturous  freedom.  She  had  unburdened  at  last  her 
heavy  heart.  As  she  spoke,  the  hot  breath  of  her  eloquence 
seemed  to  pass  far  beyond  my  single  attentive  sense,  and 
mingle  joyously  with  the  free  air  of  the  night.  Her  tale,  in 
a  measure,  might  be  untrue  or  imperfect;  but  her  passion, 
her  haste,  her  sincerity,  were  imperiously  real.  I  felt,  as 
I  had  never  felt  it,  the  truth  of  the  poet's  claim  for  his 
touch  of  nature.  I  became  conscious  of  a  hurrying  share 
in  my  companion's  dread.  I  seemed  to  hear  in  the  trem- 
bling torrent  the  sound  of  rapid  wheels.  I  expected  every 
moment  to  see  the  glare  of  lights  along  the  road,  before 
the  inn,  then  a  strong  arm  locked  about  her  waist,  and,  in 
the  ray  of  a  lantern  from  the  carriage  window,  to  catch 
the  mute  agony  of  her  solemn  eyes.  My  heart  beat  fast; 
I  was  part  and  parcel  of  a  romance!  Come!  the  denouement 
shouldn't  fail  by  any  prosy  fault  of  mine. 

"How  I've  talked!"  cried  the  Signora,  after  a  brief 
pause.  "And  how  you  stare  at  me!  Eh!  don't  be  afraid. 
I've  said  all,  and  it  has  done  me  good.  You'll  laugh  with 
your  promessa  sposa  about  that  crazy  creature  who  was 
flying  from  her  husband.  The  idea  of  people  not  being 
happy  in  marriage,  you'll  say  to  her!" 

"I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,"  I  said,  "for  having 
trusted  me  as  you  have.  But  I'm  almost  sorry  you  have 
taken  the  time.  You  oughtn't  to  be  lingering  here  while 
your  husband  is  making  the  dust  fly." 

"That's  easy  to  say,  Signore;  but  I  can't  walk  to  Brieg, 
like  you.  A  carriage  costs  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  I 
have  only  just  enough  to  pay  my  place  in  the  coach." 

I  drew  out  my  portemonnaie  and  emptied  it  in  my  hand; 
it  contained  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  francs.  "Ecco!"  I 
said,  holding  them  out  to  her. 

She  glanced  at  them  an  instant,  and  then,  with  a  move- 
ment which  effectually  rounded  and  completed  my  impres- 
sion of  her  simple  and  passionate  sincerity,  seized  with  both 


AT  ISELLA  153 

her  hands  my  own  hand  as  it  held  them.  "Ah,  the  Blessed 
Virgin  be  praised!"  she  cried.  "Ah,  you're  an  angel  from 
heaven!  Quick,  quick!  A  carriage,  a  carriage!" 

She  thrust  the  money  into  her  pocket,  and,  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  hurried  back  to  the  road,  and  moved 
swiftly  toward  the  inn.  I  overtook  her  as  she  reached  the 
doorstep,  where  our  host  was  enjoying  a  pipe  in  the  cool. 
"A  carriage!"  she  cried.  "I  must  be  off.  Quick,  without 
delay!  I  have  the  money;  you  shall  be  well  paid.  Don't 
tell  me  you  haven't  one.  There  must  be  one  here.  Find 
one,  prepare  it,  lose  not  a  moment.  Do  you  think  I  can 
lie  tossing  here  all  night?  I  shall  put  together  my  things, 
and  give  you  ten  minutes!  You,  sir,  see  that  they  hurry  1" 
And  she  rapidly  entered  the  house. 

Bonifazio  stared,  somewhat  aghast  at  the  suddenness  and 
the  energy  of  her  requisition.  Fearing  that  he  might  not 
be  equal  to  the  occasion,  I  determined  to  take  him  by  his 
gallantry.  "Come,  my  friend,"  I  said,  "don't  stand  scratch- 
ing your  head,  but  act.  I  know  you  admire  the  Signora. 
You  don't  want  to  see  so  charming  a  woman  in  trouble. 
You  don't  wish  to  have  a  scandal  in  your  inn.  It  is  of  the 
first  importance  that  she  should  leave  in  ten  minutes.  Stir 
up  your  hostler." 

A  wise  grin  illumined  his  face.  "Ah,"  said  he,  "it's  as 
bad  as  that.  I  had  my  notions.  I'll  do  what  I  can." 
He  exerted  himself  to  such  good  purpose  that  in  the  in- 
credibly short  period  of  twenty  minutes  a  small  closed 
carriage  was  drawn  by  a  couple  of  stout  horses  to  the  door. 
Going  in  to  summon  the  fair  fugitive,  I  found  her  in  the 
dining-room,  where,  fretting  with  impatience,  and  hooded 
and  shawled,  she  had  suffered  a  rather  bungling  chamber- 
maid to  attempt  the  insertion  of  a  couple  of  necessary 
pins.  She  swept  past  me  on  her  exit  as  if  she  had  equally 
forgotten  my  face  and  her  obligations,  and  entered  the  car- 
riage with  passionate  adjurations  of  haste.  I  followed  her 
and  watched  her  take  her  place;  but  she  seemed  not  even 
to  see  me.  My  hour  was  over.  I  had  added  an  impulse  to 
her  straining  purpose ;  its  hurrying  current  had  left  me  alone 
on  the  brink.  I  could  not  resist  the  influence  of  a  poignant 


154  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

regret  at  having  dropped  from  her  consciousness.  Learning 
from  a  peasant  who  was  lounging  near  at  hand  that  an  easy 
footpath  wound  along  the  side  of  the  mountain  and  struck 
the  highroad  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour's  walk,  I  immediately 
discovered  and  followed  it.  I  saw  beneath  me  in  the  dim- 
ness as  I  went  the  white  highroad,  with  the  carriage  slowly 
beginning  its  ascent.  Descending  at  last  from  the  slope, 
I  met  the  vehicle  well  on  its  way  up  the  mountain,  and 
motioned  to  the  driver  to  stop.  The  poor  Signora,  haunted 
with  the  fear  of  interruption,  thrust  her  pale  face  from 
the  window.  Seeing  me,  she  stared  an  instant  almost 
vacantly,  and  then  passing  her  hand  over  her  face  broke 
into  a  glorious  smile.  Flinging  open  the  carriage  door  from 
within,  she  held  out  her  two  hands  in  farewell. 

"Give  me  your  blessing,"  she  cried,  "and  take  mine  I  I 
had  almost  forgotten  you.  Love  is  selfish,  Signore.  But  I 
should  have  remembered  you  later  and  cried  with  gratitude. 
My  Ernesto  will  write  to  you.  Give  me  your  card — write 
me  your  address,  there  in  the  carriage  lamp.  No?  As  you 
please,  then.  Think  of  me  kindly.  And  the  young  girl 
you  marry — use  her  well — love  her  if  only  a  little — it  will  be 
enough.  We  ask  but  a  little,  but  we  need  that.  Addio!" 
and  she  raised  her  two  hands  to  her  lips,  seemed  for  an 
instant  to  exhale  her  whole  soul  upon  her  finger  tips,  and 
flung  into  the  air  a  magnificent  Italian  kiss. 

I  returned  along  the  winding  footpath  more  slowly,  a 
wiser,  possibly  a  sadder  man  than  a  couple  of  hours  before. 
I  had  entered  Italy,  I  had  tasted  of  sentiment,  I  had  assisted 
at  a  drama.  It  was  a  good  beginning.  I  found  Bonifazio 
finishing  his  pipe  before  the  inn.  "Well,  well,  Signore," 
he  cried,  "what  does  it  all  mean?" 

"Aren't  you  enough  of  an  Italian  to  guess?"  I  asked. 

"Eh,  eh,  it's  better  to  be  an  Inglese  and  to  be  told," 
cried  Bonifazio  with  a  twinkle. 

"You  must  sleep  to-night  with  an  ear  open,"  I  said.  "A 
personage  will  arrive  post-haste  from  Domo.  Stop  him  if 
you  can." 

Bonifazio  scratched  his  head.  "If  a  late  supper  or  an 
early  breakfast  will  stop  him!"  he  murmured.  I  looked 


AT  ISELLA  155 

deep  into  his  little  round  eye,  expecting  to  read  there  the 
recipe  for  the  infusion  of  a  sleeping  potion  into  cafe  au  Mt. 

My  room  that  night  was  close  and  hot,  and  my  bed 
none  of  the  best,  I  tossed  about  in  a  broken  sleep.  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  lying  ill  in  a  poor  tavern  at  Naples, 
waiting,  waiting  with  an  aching  heart,  for  the  arrival  from 
the  Baths  of  Lucca  of  a  certain  young  lady,  who  had  been 
forced  by  her  mother,  Mrs.  B.  of  Philadelphia,  into  a  cruel 
marriage  with  a  wealthy  Tuscan  contadino.  At  last  I 
seemed  to  hear  a  great  noise  without  and  a  step  on  the 
stairs;  through  the  opened  door  rushed  in  my  promessa 
sposa.  Her  blue  eyes  were  bright  with  tears,  and  she  wore 
a  flounced  black  dress  trimmed  with  crimson  silk.  The 
next  moment  she  was  kneeling  at  my  bedside  crying, 
"Ernesto,  Ernesto!"  At  this  point  I  awoke  into  the  early 
morning.  The  noise  of  horses  and  wheels  and  voices  came 
up  from  outside.  I  sprang  from  my  bed  and  stepped  to 
my  open  window.  The  huge,  high-piled,  yellow  diligence 
from  Domo  d'Ossola  had  halted  before  the  inn.  The  door 
of  the  coupe  was  open;  from  the  aperture  half  emerged 
the  Personage.  "A  peasant,"  she  had  called  him,  but  he 
was  well  dicrotti,  though  he  had  counted  his  lire  and  taken 
the  diligence.  He  struck  me  as  of  an  odd  type  for  an  Ital- 
ian: dark  sandy  hair,  a  little  sandy  moustache,  waxed  at 
the  ends,  and  sandy  whiskers  a  I'Anglaise.  He  had  a 
broad  face,  a  large  nose,  and  a  small  keen  eye,  without 
any  visible  brows.  He  wore  a  yellow  silk  handkerchief 
tied  as  a  nightcap  about  his  head,  and  in  spite  of  the  heat 
he  was  very  much  muffled.  On  the  steps  stood  Bonifazio, 
cap  in  hand,  smiling  and  obsequious. 

"Is  there  a  lady  here?"  demanded  the  gentleman  from 
the  coupe.  "A  lady  alone — good-looking — with  little  lug- 
gage?" 

"No  lady,  Signore,"  said  Bonifazio.  "Alas!  I  have  an 
empty  house.  If  eccellenza  would  like  to  descend " 

"Have  you  had  a  lady — yesterday,  last  night?  Don't 
lie." 

"We  had  three,  eccellenza,  a  week  ago — three  Scotch 


156  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

ladies  going  to  Baveno.  Nay,  three  days  since  we  had  a 
prima  donna  on  her  way  to  Milan." 

"Damn  your  Scotch  prima  donna/"  said  the  other.  "Have 
you  had  my  wife?" 

"The  wife  of  eccellenza?  Save  the  ladies  I  mention, 
we  have  had  neither  wife  nor  maid.  Would  eccellenza  like 
a  cup  of  coffee?" 

"Sangue  di  Dio!"  was  eccellenza' s  sole  response.  The 
coupe  door  closed  with  a  slam,  the  conductor  mounted,  the 
six  horses  started  and  the  great  mountain  coach  rolled  away. 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION 


ARRIVE  half  past  eight.  Sick.  Meet  me." 
The  telegrammatic  brevity  of  my  step-brother's  mis- 
sive gave  that  melancholy  turn  to  my  thoughts  which  was 
the  usual  result  of  his  communications.  He  was  to  have 
come  on  the  Friday;  what  had  made  him  start  off  on 
Wednesday?  The  terms  on  which  we  stood  were  a  per- 
petual source  of  irritation.  We  were  utterly  unlike  in 
temper  and  taste  and  opinions,  and  yet,  having  a  number 
of  common  interests,  we  were  obliged,  after  a  fashion,  to 
compromise  with  each  other's  idiosyncrasies.  In  fact,  the 
concessions  were  all  on  my  side.  He  was  altogether  too 
much  my  superior  in  all  that  makes  the  man  who  counts 
in  the  world  for  me  not  to  feel  it,  and  it  cost  me  less  to 
let  him  take  his  way  than  to  make  a  stand  for  my  dignity. 
What  I  did  through  indolence  and  in  some  degree,  I  con- 
fess, through  pusillanimity,  I  had  a  fancy  to  make  it  appear 
(by  dint  of  much  whistling,  as  it  were,  and  easy  thrusting 
of  my  hands  into  my  pockets)  that  I  did  through  a  sort  of 
generous  condescension.  Edgar  cared  little  enough  upon 
what  recipe  I  compounded  a  salve  for  my  vanity,  so  long 
as  he  held  his  own  course;  and  I  am  afraid  I  played  the 
slumbering  giant  to  altogether  empty  benches.  There  had 
been,  indeed,  a  vague  tacit  understanding  that  he  was  to 
treat  me,  in  form,  as  a  man  with  a  mind  of  his  own,  and 
there  was  occasionally  something  most  incisively  sarcastic 
in  his  observance  of  the  treaty.  What  made  matters  the 
worse  for  me,  and  the  better  for  him,  was  an  absurd  physical 
disparity;  for  Musgrave  was  like  nothing  so  much  as  Fal- 
staff's  description  of  Shallow, — a  man  made  after  supper 
of  a  cheese-paring.  He  was  a  miserable  invalid,  and  was 

157 


158  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

perpetually  concerned  with  his  stomach,  his  lungs,  and  his 
liver,  and  as  he  was  both  doctor  and  patient  in  one,  they 
kept  him  very  busy.  His  head  was  grotesquely  large  for 
his  diminutive  figure,  his  eye  fixed  and  salient,  and  his 
complexion  liable  to  flush  with  an  air  of  indignation  and 
suspicion.  He  practised  a  most  resolute  little  strut  on  a 
most  attenuated  pair  of  little  legs.  For  myself,  I  was  tall, 
happily;  for  I  was  broad  enough,  if  I  had  been  shorter,  to 
have  perhaps  incurred  that  invidious  monosyllabic  epithet 
which  haunted  Lord  Byron.  As  compared  with  Edgar,  I 
was  at  least  fairly  good-looking;  a  stoutish,  blondish,  in- 
dolent, amiable,  rather  gorgeous  young  fellow  might  have 
served  as  my  personal  formula.  My  patrimony,  being 
double  that  of  my  step-brother  (for  we  were  related  by 
my  mother),  was  largely  lavished  on  the  adornment  of  this 
fine  person.  I  dressed  in  fact,  as  I  recollect,  with  a  sort 
of  barbaric  splendor,  and  I  may  very  well  have  passed  for 
one  of  the  social  pillars  of  a  small  watering-place. 

L was  in  those  days  just  struggling  into  fame,  and 

but  that  it  savored  overmuch  of  the  fresh  paint  lately 
lavished  upon  the  various  wooden  barracks  in  which  visitors 
were  to  be  accommodated,  it  yielded  a  pleasant  mixture 
of  rurality  and  society.  The  vile  taste  and  the  sovereign 
virtue  of  the  spring  were  fairly  established,  and  Edgar 
was  not  the  man  to  forego  the  chance  of  trying  the  waters 
and  abusing  them.  Having  heard  that  the  hotel  was 
crowded,  he  wished  to  secure  a  room  at  least  a  week  before- 
hand; the  upshot  of  which  was,  that  I  came  down  on  the 
igth  of  July  with  the  mission  to  retain  and  occupy  his 
apartment  till  the  26th.  I  passed,  with  people  in  general, 
and  with  Edgar  in  particular,  for  so  very  idle  a  person  that 
it  seemed  almost  a  duty  to  saddle  me  with  some  wholesome 
errand.  Edgar  had,  first  and  always,  his  health  to  attend 
to,  and  then  that  neat  little  property  and  those  everlasting 
accounts,  which  he  was  never  weary  of  contemplating,  veri- 
fying, and  overhauling.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  make 
over  his  room  to  him,  remain  a  day  or  two  for  civility's 
sake  and  then  leave  him  to  his  cups.  Meanwhile,  on  the 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  159 

24th,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  ought  really  to  see  some- 
thing of  the  place.  The  weather  had  been  too  hot  for 
going  about,  and,  as  yet,  I  had  hardly  left  the  piazza  of 
the  hotel.  Towards  afternoon  the  clouds  gathered,  the  sun 
was  obscured,  and  it  seemed  possible  even  for  a  large,  lazy 
man  to  take  a  walk.  I  went  along  beside  the  river,  under 
the  trees,  rejoicing  much  in  the  midsummer  prettiness  of 
all  the  land  and  in  the  sultry  afternoon  stillness.  I  was 
discomposed  and  irritated,  and  all  for  no  better  reason  than 
that  Edgar  was  coming.  What  was  Edgar  that  his  comings 
and  goings  should  affect  me?  Was  I,  after  all,  so  exces- 
sively his  younger  brother?  I  would  turn  over  a  new  leaf! 
I  almost  wished  things  would  come  to  a  crisis  between 
us,  and  that  in  the  glow  of  exasperation  I  might  say  or 
do  something  unpardonable.  But  there  was  small  chance 
of  my  quarrelling  with  Edgar  for  vanity's  sake.  Somehow, 
I  didn't  believe  in  my  own  egotism,  but  I  had  an  indefeas- 
ible respect  for  his.  I  was  fatally  good-natured,  and  I 
should  continue  to  do  his  desire  until  I  began  to  do  that 
of  some  one  else.  If  I  might  only  fall  in  love  and  exchange, 
my  master  for  a  mistress,  for  some  charming  goddess  of 
unreason  who  would  declare  that  Mr.  Musgrave  was  simply 
intolerable  and  that  was  an  end  of  it! 

So,  meditating  vaguely,  I  arrived  at  the  little  Episcopal 
chapel,  which  stands  on  the  margin  of  the  village  where  the 
latter  begins  to  melt  away  into  the  large  river-side  land- 
scape. The  door  was  slightly  ajar:  there  came  through  it 
into  the  hot  outer  stillness  the  low  sound  of  an  organ, — 
the  rehearsal,  evidently,  of  the  organist  or  of  some  gentle 
amateur.  I  was  warm  with  walking,  and  this  glimpse  of 
the  cool  musical  dimness  within  prompted  me  to  enter  and 
rest  and  listen.  The  body  of  the  church  was  empty;  but 
a  feeble  glow  of  color  was  diffused  through  the  little  yellow 
and  crimson  windows  upon  the  pews  and  the  cushioned 
pulpit.  The  organ  was  erected  in  a  small  gallery  facing 
the  chancel,  into  which  the  ascent  was  by  a  short  stair- 
way directly  from  the  church.  The  sound  of  my  tread 
was  apparently  covered  by  the  music,  for  the  player  con- 
tinued without  heeding  me,  hidden  as  she  was  behind  a  little 


i6o  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

blue  silk  curtain  on  the  edge  of  the  gallery.  Yes,  that 
gentle,  tentative,  unprofessional  touch  came  from  a  fem- 
inine hand.  Uncertain  as  it  was,  however,  it  wrought  upon 
my  musical  sensibilities  with  a  sort  of  provoking  force. 
The  air  was  familiar,  and,  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  begun 
to  furnish  the  vocal  accompaniment, — first  gently,  then 
boldly.  Standing  with  my  face  to  the  organ,  I  awaited 
the  effect  of  my  venture.  The  only  perceptible  result  was 
that,  for  a  moment,  the  music  faltered  and  the  curtains 
were  stirred.  I  saw  nothing,  but  I  had  been  seen,  and, 
reassured  apparently  by  my  aspect,  the  organist  resumed 
the  chant.  Slightly  mystified,  I  felt  urged  to  sing  my  best, 
the  more  so  that,  as  I  continued,  the  player  seemed  to  bor- 
row confidence  and  emulation  from  my  voice.  The  notes 
rolled  out  bravely,  and  the  little  vault  resounded.  Suddenly 
there  seemed  to  come  to  the  musician,  in  the  ardor  of  suc- 
cess, a  full  accession  of  vigor  and  skill.  The  last  chords 
were  struck  with  a  kind  of  triumphant  intensity,  and 
their  cadence  was  marked  by  a  clear  soprano  voice.  Just 
at  the  close,  however,  voice  and  music  were  swallowed  up 
in  the  roll  of  a  huge  thunder-clap.  At  the  same  instant, 
the  storm-drops  began  to  strike  the  chapel-windows,  and 
we  were  sheeted  in  a  summer  rain.  The  rain  was  a  bore; 
but,  at  least,  I  should  have  a  look  at  the  organist,  concern- 
ing whom  my  curiosity  had  suddenly  grown  great.  The 
thunder-claps  followed  each  other  with  such  violence  that 
it  was  vain  to  continue  to  play.  I  waited,  in  the  con- 
fident belief  that  that  charming  voice — half  a  dozen  notes 
had  betrayed  it — denoted  a  charming  woman.  After  the 
lapse  of  some  moments,  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  grace- 
ful and  appealing  hesitancy,  a  female  figure  appeared  at 
the  top  of  the  little  stairway  and  began  to  descend.  I 
walked  slowly  down  the  aisle.  The  stormy  darkness  had 
rapidly  increased,  and  at  this  moment,  with  a  huge  burst 
of  thunder,  following  a  blinding  flash,  a  momentary  mid- 
night fell  upon  our  refuge.  When  things  had  become 
visible  again,  I  beheld  the  fair  musician  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  gazing  at  me  with  all  the  frankness  of  agitation. 
The  little  chapel  was  rattling  to  its  foundations. 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  161 

"Do  you  think  there  is  any  danger?"  asked  my  com- 
panion. 

I  made  haste  to  assure  her  there  was  none.  "The  chapel 
has  nothing  in  the  nature  of  a  spire,  and  even  if  it  had,  the 
fact  of  our  being  in  a  holy  place  ought  to  insure  us 
against  injury." 

She  looked  at  me  wonderingly,  as  if  to  see  whether  I 
was  in  jest.  To  satisfy  her,  I  smiled  as  graciously  as  I 
might.  Whereupon,  gathering  confidence,  "I  think  we  have 
each  of  us,"  she  said,  "so  little  right  to  be  here  that  we 
can  hardly  claim  the  benefit  of  sanctuary." 

"Are  you  too  an  interloper?"  I  asked. 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "I'm  not  an  Episcopalian," 
she  replied;  "I'm  a  good  Unitarian." 

"Well,  I'm  a  poor  Episcopalian.  It's  six  of  one  and  half 
a  dpzen  of  the  other."  There  came  another  long,  many- 
sheeted  flash  and  an  immediate  wild  reverberation.  My 
companion,  as  she  stood  before  me,  was  vividly  illumined 
from  head  to  feet.  It  was  as  if  some  fierce  natural  power 
had  designed  to  interpose  her  image  on  my  soul  forever,  in 
this  merciless  electric  glare.  As  I  saw  her  then,  I  have 
never  ceased  to  see  her  since.  I  have  called  her  fair,  but 
the  word  needs  explanation.  Singularly  pleasing  as  she 
was,  it  was  with  a  charm  that  was  all  her  own.  Not  the 
charm  of  beauty,  but  of  a  certain  intense  expressiveness, 
which  seems  to  have  given  beauty  the  go-by  in  the  very  inter- 
est of  grace.  Slender,  meagre,  without  redundancy  of  outline 
or  brilliancy  of  color,  she  was  a  person  you  might  never  have 
noticed,  but  would  certainly  never  forget.  What  there  was 
was  so  charming,  what  there  was  might  be  so  interesting! 
There  was  none  of  the  idleness  of  conscious  beauty  in  her 
clear  gray  eyes ;  they  seemed  charged  with  the  impatience  of 
a  restless  mind.  Her  glance  and  smile,  her  step  and  gesture, 
were  as  light  and  distinct  as  a  whispered  secret.  She  was 
nervous,  curious,  zealous,  slightly  imperious,  and  delicately 
elegant  withal;  without  which,  possibly,  she  might  have 
seemed  a  trifle  too  positive.  There  is  a  certain  sweet  un- 
reason in  a  picturesque  toilet.  She  was  dressed  in  a  modish 
adjustment  of  muslins  and  iace,  which  denoted  the  woman 


1 62  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

who  may  have  fancied  that  even  less  beauty  might  yet 
please.  While  I  drew  my  conclusions, — they  were  eminently 
flattering, — my  companion  was  buttoning  her  gloves  and 
looking  anxiously  at  the  dripping  windows.  Wishing,  as 
far  as  I  might,  to  beguile  her  impatience,  I  proceeded  to 
apologize  for  the  liberty  I  had  taken  in  singing  to  her 
music.  "My  best  excuse,"  I  said,  "is  your  admirable 
playing,  and  my  own  most  sensitive  ear!" 

"You  might  have  frightened  me  away,"  she  answered. 
"But  you  sang  too  well  for  that,  better  than  I  played.  In 
fact,  I  was  afraid  to  stop,  I  thought  you  might  be  one  of 
the — the  hierarchy." 

"A  bishop!" 

"A  bishop, — a  dean, — a  deacon, — or  something  of  that 
sort." 

"The  sexton,  perhaps." 

"Before  the  sexton  I  should  have  succumbed.  I  take  it 
his  business  would  have  been  to  eject  me  as  a  meddlesome 
heretic.  I  came  in  for  no  better  reason  than  that  the 
church  door  was  ajar." 

"As  a  church  door  ought  always  to  be." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment.  "No;  see  what  comes  of 
it." 

"No  great  harm,  it  seems  to  me." 

"O,  that's  very  well  for  us!  But  a  church  shouldn't 
be  made  a  place  of  convenience." 

I  wished,  in  the  interest  of  our  growing  intimacy,  to  make 
a  point.  "If  it  is  not  a  place  of  convenience,"  I  ventured 
to  propound,  deprecating  offence  with  a  smile,  "what  is 
it?" 

It  was  an  observation  I  afterwards  made,  that  in  cases 
when  many  women  drop  their  eyes  and  look  prettily  silly 
or  prudishly  alarmed,  this  young  lady's  lucid  glance  would 
become  more  unaffectedly  direct  and  searching.  "Indeed," 
she  answered,  "you  are  but  an  indifferent  Episcopalian! 
I  came  in  because  the  door  was  open,  because  I  was  warm 
with  my  walk,  and  because,  I  confess,  I  have  an  especial 
fondness  for  going  into  churches  on  week-days.  One  does 
it  in  Europe,  you  know;  and  it  reminds  me  of  Europe." 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  163 

I  cast  a  glance  over  the  naked  tabernacle,  with  the 
counterfeit  graining  scarcely  dry  on  its  beams  and  planks, 
and  a  strong  aroma  of  turpentine  and  putty  representing 
the  odor  of  sanctity.  She  followed  my  glance;  our  eyes 
met,  and  we  laughed.  From  this  moment  we  talked  with 
a  freedom  tempered  less  by  the  sanctity  of  the  spot  than 
by  a  certain  luxury  of  deference  with  which  I  felt  prompted 
to  anticipate  possible  mistrust.  The  rain  continued  to  de- 
scend with  such  steady  good-will  that  it  seemed  needful 
to  accept  our  situation  frankly  and  conjure  away  the  spirit 

of  awkwardness.    We  spoke  of  L ,  of  the  people  there, 

of  the  hot  weather,  of  music.  She  had  as  yet  seen  little  of 
the  place,  having  been  confined  to  her  apartments  by  do- 
mestic reasons.  I  wondered  what  her  domestic  reasons 
were.  She  had  come  forth  at  last  to  call  upon  a  friend  at 
one  of  the  boarding-houses  which  adorned  this  suburb  of 
the  village.  Her  friend  being  out,  but  likely  soon  to  re- 
turn, she  had  sought  entertainment  in  a  stroll  along  the 
road,  and  so  had  wandered  into  the  chapel.  Our  interview 
lasted  half  an  hour.  As  it  drew  to  a  close,  I  fancied  there 
had  grown  up  between  us  some  delicate  bond,  begotten  of 
our  mutual  urbanity.  I  might  have  been  indiscreet;  as  it 
was,  I  took  my  pleasure  in  tracing  the  gradual  evanescence 
of  my  companion's  sense  of  peril.  As  the  moments  elapsed, 
she  sat  down  on  the  bench  with  an  air  of  perfect  equanimity, 
and  looked  patiently  at  the  trickling  windows.  The  still 
small  voice  of  some  familiar  spirit  of  the  Lord,  haunting 
the  dedicated  vault,  seemed  to  have  audibly  blessed  our 
meeting.  At  last  the  rain  abated  and  suddenly  stopped,  and 
through  a  great  rift  in  the  clouds  there  leaped  a  giant  sun- 
beam and  smote  the  trickling  windows.  Through  little 
gaudy  lozenges  the  chapel  was  flooded  with  prismatic  light. 
"The  storm  is  over,"  said  my  companion.  She  spoke  with- 
out rising,  as  if  she  had  been  cheated  of  the  sense  of  haste. 
Was  it  calculated  civility,  or  was  it  momentary  self-obliv- 
ion? Whatever  it  was,  it  lasted  but  a  moment.  We  were 
on  our  feet  and  moving  toward  the  door.  As  we  stood  in 
the  porch,  honest  gallantry  demanded  its  rights. 


1 64  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"I  never  knew  before,"  I  said,  "the  possible  blessings  of 
a  summer  rain." 

She  proceeded  a  few  steps  before  she  answered.  Then 
glancing  at  the  shining  sky,  already  blue  and  free,  "In  ten 
minutes,"  she  said,  "there  will  be  no  trace  of  it!" 

"Does  that  mean,"  I  frankly  demanded,  "that  we  are  not 
to  meet  again  as  friends?" 

"Are  we  to  meet  again  at  all?" 

"I  count  upon  it." 

"Certainly,  then,  not  as  enemies!"  As  she  walked 
away,  I  imprecated  those  restrictions  of  modern  civilization 
which  forbade  me  to  stand  and  gaze  at  her. 

Who  was  she?  What  was  she? — questions  the  more 
intense  as,  in  the  absence  of  any  further  evidence  than  my 
rapid  personal  impression,  they  were  so  provokingly  vain. 
They  occupied  me,  however,  during  the  couple  of  hours 
which  were  to  elapse  before  my  step-brother's  arrival. 
When  his  train  became  due,  I  went  through  the  form,  as 
usual,  of  feeling  desperately  like  treating  myself  to  the 
luxury  of  neglecting  his  summons  and  leaving  him  to  shift 
for  himself;  as  if  I  had  not  the  most  distinct  prevision  of 
the  inevitable  event, — of  my  being  at  the  station  half  an 
hour  too  early,  of  my  calling  his  hack  and  making  his  bar- 
gain and  taking  charge  of  his  precious  little  hand-bag,  full 
of  medicine-bottles,  and  his  ridiculous  bundle  of  umbrellas 
and  canes.  Somehow,  this  evening,  I  felt  unwontedly  loath 
and  indocile;  but  I  contented  myself  with  this  bold  flight 
of  the  imagination. 

It  is  hard  to  describe  fairly  my  poor  step-brother's 
peculiar  turn  of  mind,  to  give  an  adequate  impression  of  his 
want  of  social  charm,  to  put  it  mildly,  without  accusing 
him  of  wilful  malevolence.  He  was  simply  the  most  con- 
sistent and  incorruptible  of  egotists.  He  was  perpetually 
affirming  and  denning  and  insuring  himself,  insisting  upon 
a  personal  right  or  righting  a  personal  wrong.  And  above 
all,  he  was  a  man  of  conscience.  He  asked  no  odds,  and 
he  gave  none.  He  made  honesty  something  unlovely,  but 
he  was  rigidly  honest.  He  demanded  simply  his  dues,  and 
he  collected  them  to  the  last  farthing.  These  things  gave 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  165 

him  a  portentous  solemnity.  He  smiled  perhaps  once  a 
month,  and  made  a  joke  once  in  six.  There  are  jokes  of 
his  making  which,  to  this  day,  give  me  a  shiver  when  I 
think  of  them.  But  I  soon  perceived,  as  he  descended  from 
the  train,  that  there  would  be  no  joke  that  evening.  Some- 
thing had  happened.  His  face  was  hard  and  sombre,  and 
his  eye  bright  and  fierce.  "A  carriage,"  he  said,  giving  me 
his  hand  stiffly.  And  when  we  were  seated  and  driving 
away,  "First  of  all,"  he  demanded,  "are  there  any  mosqui- 
toes? A  single  mosquito  would  finish  me.  And  is  my  room 
habitable,  on  the  shady  side,  away  from  the  stairs,  with  a 
view,  with  a  hair-mattress?"  I  assured  him  that  mosqui- 
toes were  unknown,  and  that  his  room  was  the  best,  and 
his  mattress  the  softest  in  the  house.  Was  he  tired?  how 
had  he  been? 

"Don't  ask  me.  I'm  in  an  extremely  critical  state.  Tired? 
Tired  is  a  word  for  well  people!  When  I'm  tired  I  shall 
go  to  bed  and  die.  Thank  God,  so  long  as  I  have  any  work 
to  do,  I  can  hold  up  my  head!  I  haven't  slept  in  a  week. 
It's  singular,  but  I'm  never  so  well  disposed  for  my  duties 
as  when  I  haven't  slept!  But  be  so  good,  for  the  present, 
as  to  ask  me  no  questions.  I  shall  immediately  take  a  bath 
and  drink  some  arrow-root;  I  have  brought  a  package  in 
my  bag,  I  suppose  I  can  get  them  to  make  it.  I'll  speak 
about  it  at  the  office.  No,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I'll  make 
it  in  my  room;  I  have  a  little  machine  for  boiling  water. 
I  think  I  shall  drink  half  a  glass  of  the  spring  to-night, 
just  to  make  a  beginning." 

All  this  was  said  with  as  profound  a  gravity  as  if  he 
were  dictating  his  will.  But  I  saw  that  he  was  at  a  sort  of 
white-heat  exasperation,  and  I  knew  that  in  time  I  should 
learn  where  the  shoe  pinched.  Meanwhile,  I  attempted  to 
say  something  cheerful  and  frivolous,  and  offered  some 
information  as  to  who  was  at  the  hotel  and  who  was  ex- 
pected; "No  one  you  know  or  care  about,  I  think." 

"Very  likely  not.    I'm  in  no  mood  for  gossip." 

"You  seem  nervous,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"Nervous?  Call  it  frantic!  I'm  not  blessed  with  your 
apathetic  temperament,  nor  with  your  elegant  indifference 


1 66  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

to  money-matters.  Do  you  know  what's  the  matter  with 
me?  I've  lost  twenty  thousand  dollars." 

I,  of  course,  demanded  particulars;  but,  for  the  present, 
I  had  to  content  myself  with  the  naked  fact.  "It's  a 
mighty  serious  matter,"  said  Edgar.  "I  can't  talk  of  it 
further  till  I  have  bathed  and  changed  my  linen.  The  ther- 
mometer has  been  at  ninety-one  in  my  rooms  in  town. 
I've  had  this  pretty  piece  of  news  to  keep  me  cool." 

I  left  him  to  his  bath,  his  toilet,  and  his  arrow-root 
and  strolled  about  pondering  the  mystery  of  his  disaster. 
Truly,  if  Edgar  had  lost  money,  shrewdness  was  out  of 
tune.  Destiny  must  have  got  up  early  to  outwit  my  step- 
brother. And  yet  his  misfortune  gave  him  a  sort  of  un- 
wonted grace,  and  I  believe  I  wondered  for  five  minutes 
whether  there  was  a  chance  of  his  being  relaxed  and  softened 
by  it.  I  had,  indeed,  a  momentary  vision  of  lending  him 
money,  and  taking  a  handsome  revenge  as  a  good-natured 
creditor.  But  Edgar  would  never  borrow.  He  would 
either  recover  his  money  or  grimly  do  without  it.  On  going 
back  to  his  room  I  found  him  dressed  and  refreshed,  screw- 
ing a  little  portable  kettle  upon  his  gas-burner. 

"You  can  never  get  them  to  bring  you  water  that  really 
boils,"  he  said.  "They  don't  know  what  it  means.  You're 
altogether  wrong  about  the  mosquitoes;  I'm  sure  I  heard 
one,  and  by  the  sound,  he's  a  monster.  But  I  have  a  net 
folded  up  in  my  trunk,  and  a  hook  and  ring  which  I  mean 
to  drive  into  the  ceiling." 

"I'll  put  up  your  net.  Meanwhile,  tell  me  about  your 
twenty  thousand  dollars." 

He  was  silent  awhile,  but  at  last  he  spoke  in  a  voice 
forcibly  attuned  to  composure.  "You're  immensely  tickled, 
I  suppose,  to  find  me  losing  money!  That  comes  of  worry- 
ing too  much  and  handling  my  funds  too  often.  Yes,  I 
have  worried  too  much."  He  paused,  and  then,  suddenly,  he 
broke  out  into  a  kind  of  fury.  "I  hate  waste,  I  hate  shift- 
lessness,  I  hate  nasty  mismanagement!  I  hate  to  see  money 
bring  in  less  than  it  may.  My  imagination  loves  a  good 
investment.  I  respect  my  property,  I  respect  other 
people's.  But  your  own  honesty  is  all  you'll  find  in  this 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  167 

world,  and  it  will  go  no  farther  than  you're  there  to  cany 
it.  You've  always  thought  me  hard  and  suspicious  and 
grasping.  No,  you  never  said  so;  should  I  have  cared  if 
you  had?  With  your  means,  it's  all  very  well  to  be  a  fine 
gentleman,  to  skip  the  items  and  glance  at  the  total.  But, 
being  poor  and  sick,  I  have  to  be  close.  I  wasn't  close 
enough.  What  do  you  think  of  my  having  been  cheated? 
— cheated  under  my  very  nose?  I  hope  I'm  genteel  enough 
now!" 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  man!"  I  cried. 

"You  shall  see  him.  All  the  world  shall  see  him.  I've 
been  looking  into  the  matter.  It  has  been  beautifully  done. 
If  I  were  to  be  a  rascal,  I  should  like  to  be  just  such  a 
one." 

"Who  is  your  rascal?" 

"His  name  is  John  Guest." 

I  had  heard  the  name,  but  had  never  seen  the  man. 

"No,  you  don't  know  him,"  Edgar  went  on.  "No  one 
knows  him  but  I.  But  I  know  him  well.  He  had  things 
in  his  hands  for  a  week,  while  I  was  debating  a  transfer  of 
my  New  Jersey  property.  In  a  week  this  is  how  he  mixed 
matters." 

"Perhaps,  if  you  had  given  him  time,"  I  suggested,  "he 
meant  to  get  them  straight  again." 

"O,  I  shall  give  him  time.  I  mean  he  shall  get  'em 
straight,  or  I  shall  twist  him  so  crooked  his  best  friend 
won't  know  him." 

"Did  you  never  suspect  his  honesty?" 

"Do  you  suspect  mine?" 

"But  you  have  legal  redress?" 

"It's  no  thanks  to  him.  He  had  fixed  things  to  a  charm, 
he  had  done  his  best  to  cut  me  off  and  cover  his  escape. 
But  I've  got  him,  and  he  shall  disgorge!" 

I  hardly  know  why  it  was;  but  the  implacable  firmness 
of  my  brother's  position  produced  in  my  mind  a  sort  of 
fantastic  reaction  in  favor  of  Mr.  John  Guest.  I  felt  a 
sudden  gush  of  the  most  inconsequent  pity.  "Poor  man!" 
I  exclaimed.  But  to  repair  my  weakness,  I  plunged  into  a 
series  of  sympathetic  questions  and  listened  attentively  to 


1 68  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

Edgar's  statement  of  his  wrongs.  As  he  set  forth  the  case, 
I  found  myself  taking  a  whimsical  interest  in  Mr.  Guest's 
own  side  of  it,  wondering  whether  he  suspected  suspicion, 
whether  he  dreaded  conviction,  whether  he  had  an  easy 
conscience,  and  how  he  was  getting  through  the  hot  weather. 
I  asked  Edgar  how  lately  he  had  discovered  his  loss  and 
whether  he  had  since  communicated  with  the  criminal. 

"Three  days  ago,  three  nights  ago,  rather;  for  I  haven't 
slept  a  wink  since.  I  have  spoken  of  the  matter  to  no 
one;  for  the  present  I  need  no  one's  help,  I  can  help  myself. 
I  haven't  seen  the  man  more  than  three  or  four  times;  our 
dealings  have  generally  been  by  letter.  The  last  person 
you'd  suspect.  He's  as  great  a  dandy  as  you  yourself,  and 
in  better  taste,  too.  I  was  told  ten  days  ago,  at  his  office, 
that  he  had  gone  out  of  town.  I  suppose  I'm  paying  for  his 
champagne  at  Newport." 


n 

On  my  proposing,  half  an  hour  later,  to  relieve  him  of  my 
society  and  allow  him  to  prepare  for  rest,  Edgar  declared 
that  our  talk  had  put  an  end  to  sleep  and  that  he  must 
take  a  turn  in  the  open  air.  On  descending  to  the  piazza, 
we  found  it  in  the  deserted  condition  into  which  it  usually 
lapsed  about  ten  o'clock;  either  from  a  wholesome  desire 
on  the  part  of  our  fellow-lodgers  to  keep  classic  country 
hours,  or  from  the  soporific  influences  of  excessive  leisure. 
Here  and  there  the  warm  darkness  was  relieved  by  the  red 
tip  of  a  cigar  in  suggestive  proximity  to  a  light  corsage.  I 
observed,  as  we  strolled  along,  a  lady  of  striking  appear- 
ance, seated  in  the  zone  of  light  projected  from  a  window, 
in  conversation  with  a  gentleman.  "Really,  I'm  afraid 
you'll  take  cold,"  I  heard  her  say  as  we  passed.  "Let  me 
tie  my  handkerchief  round  your  neck."  And  she  gave  it 
a  playful  twist.  She  was  a  pretty  woman,  of  middle  age, 
with  great  freshness  of  toilet  and  complexion,  and  a  pictur- 
esque abundance  of  blond  hair,  upon  which  was  coquettishly 
poised  a  fantastic  little  hat,  decorated  with  an  immense 
pink  rose.  Her  companion  was  a  seemingly  affable  man, 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  169 

with  a  bald  head,  a  white  waistcoat,  and  a  rather  florid 
air  of  distinction.  When  we  passed  them  a  second  time, 
they  had  risen  and  the  lady  was  preparing  to  enter  the 
house.  Her  companion  went  with  her  to  the  door;  she  left 
him  with  a  great  deal  of  coquettish  by-play,  and  he  turned 
back  to  the  piazza.  At  this  moment  his  glance  fell  upon 
my  step-brother.  He  started,  I  thought,  and  then,  replacing 
his  hat  with  an  odd,  nervous  decision,  came  towards  him 
with  a  smile.  "Mr.  Musgrave!"  he  said. 

Edgar  stopped  short,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  to  lack 
words  to  reply.  At  last  he  uttered  a  deep,  harsh  note: 
"Mr.  Guest!" 

In  an  instant  I  felt  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
"situation."  Edgar's  words  had  the  sound  of  the  "click" 
upon  the  limb  of  the  entrapped  fox.  A  scene  was  imminent ; 
the  actors  were  only  awaiting  their  cues.  Mr.  Guest  made 
a  half-offer  of  his  hand,  but,  perceiving  no  response  in 
Edgar's,  he  gracefully  dipped  it  into  his  pocket.  "You 
must  have  just  come!"  he  murmured. 

"A  couple  of  hours  ago." 

Mr.  Guest  glanced  at  me,  as  if  to  include  me  in  the 
operation  of  his  urbanity,  and  his  glance  stirred  in  my  soul 
an  impulse  of  that  kindness  which  we  feel  for  a  man  about 
to  be  executed.  It's  no  more  than  human  to  wish  to/ 
shake  hands  with  him.  "Introduce  me,  Edgar,"  I  said. 

"My  step-brother,"  said  Edgar,  curtly.  "This  is  Mr. 
Guest,  of  whom  we  have  been  talking." 

I  put  out  my  hand;  he  took  it  with  cordiality.  "Really," 
he  declared,  "this  is  a  most  unexpected — a — circumstance." 

"Altogether  so  to  me,"  said  Edgar. 

"You've  come  for  the  waters,  I  suppose,"  our  friend  went 
on.  "I'm  sorry  your  health  continues — a — unsatisfactory." 

Edgar,  I  perceived,  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  nervous 
exacerbation,  the  result  partly  of  mere  surprise  and  partly 
of  keen  disappointment.  His  plans  had  been  checked.  He 
had  determined  to  do  thus  and  so,  and  he  must  now  ex- 
temporize a  policy.  Well,  as  poor,  pompous  Mr.  Guest 
wished  it,  so  he  should  have  it!  "I  shall  never  be  strong," 
said  Edgar. 


170  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"Well,  well,"  responded  Mr.  Guest,  "a  man  of  your  parts 
may  make  a  little  strength  serve  a  great  purpose." 

My  step-brother  was  silent  a  moment,  relishing  secretly, 
I  think,  the  beautiful  pertinence  of  this  observation.  "I 
suppose  I  can  defend  my  rights,"  he  rejoined. 

"Exactly!  What  more  does  a  man  need?"  and  he  ap- 
pealed to  me  with  an  insinuating  smile.  His  smile  was  sin- 
gularly frank  and  agreeable,  and  his  glance  full  of  a  sort 
of  conciliating  gallantry.  I  noted  in  his  face,  however,  by 
the  gaslight,  a  haggard,  jaded  look  which  lent  force  to  what 
he  went  on  to  say.  "I  have  been  feeling  lately  as  if  I 
hadn't  even  strength  for  that.  The  hot  weather,  an  over- 
dose of  this  abominable  water,  one  thing  and  another,  the 
inevitable  premonitions  of — a — mortality,  have  quite  pulled 
me  down.  Since  my  arrival  here,  ten  days  ago,  I  have 
really  been  quite — a — the  invalid.  I've  actually  been  in 
bed.  A  most  unprecedented  occurrence!" 
'  "I  hope  you're  better,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"Yes,  I  think  I'm  myself  again, — thanks  to  capital  nurs- 
ing. I  think  I'm  myself  again!"  He  repeated  his  words 
mechanically,  with  a  sort  of  exaggerated  gayety,  and  began 
to  wipe  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief.  Edgar  was 
watching  him  narrowly,  with  an  eye  whose  keenness  it  was 
impossible  to  veil;  and  I  think  Edgar's  eye  partly  caused 
his  disquiet.  "The  last  thing  I  did,  by  the  way,  before 
my  indisposition,  was  to  write  you  ten  lines,  Mr.  Musgrave, 
on — a  little  matter  of  business." 

"I  got  your  letter,"  said  Edgar  grimly. 

Mr.  Guest  was  silent  a  moment.  "And  I  hope  my  ar- 
rangements have  met  your  approval?" 

"We  shall  talk  of  that,"  said  Edgar. 

At  this  point,  I  confess,  my  interest  in  the  situation  had 
become  painful.  I  felt  sick.  I'm  not  a  man  of  ready- 
made  resolution,  as  my  story  will  abundantly  prove.  I 
am  discountenanced  and  bullied  by  disagreeable  things. 
Poor  Mr.  Guest  was  so  infallibly  booked  for  exposure  that 
I  instinctively  retreated.  Taking  advantage  of  his  allusion 
to  business,  I  turned  away  and  walked  to  the  other  end  of 
the  piazza.  This  genial  gentleman,  then,  was  embodied 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  171 

fraud!  this  sayer  of  civil  things  was  a  doer  of  monstrously 
shabby  ones!  that  irreproachable  white  waistcoat  carried 
so  sadly  spotted  a  conscience!  Whom  had  he  involved  in 
his  dishonor?  Had  he  a  wife,  children,  friends?  Who 
was  that  so  prosperously  pretty  woman,  with  her  flattering 
solicitude  for  his  health?  I  stood  for  some  time  reflecting 
how  guilt  is  not  the  vulgar  bugaboo  we  fancy  it, — that 
it  has  organs,  senses,  affections,  passions,  for  all  the  world 
like  those  of  innocence.  Indeed,  from  my  cursory  obser- 
vation of  my  friend,  I  had  rarely  seen  innocence  so  hand- 
somely featured.  Where,  then,  was  the  line  which  severed 
rectitude  from  error?  Was  manhood  a  baser  thing  than  I 
had  fancied,  or  was  sin  a  thing  less  base?  As  I  mused  thus, 
my  disgust  ebbed  away,  and  the  return  of  the  wave  brought 
an  immense  curiosity  to  see  what  it  had  come  to  betwixt 
guilt  and  justice.  Had  Edgar  launched  his  thunder?  I 
retracted  my  steps  and  rejoined  my  companions.  Edgar's 
thunder  was  apparently  still  in  the  clouds;  but  there  had 
been  a  premonitory  flash  of  lightning.  Guest  stood  before 
him,  paler  than  before,  staring  defiantly,  and  stammering 
out  some  fierce  denial.  "I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said. 
"If  you  mean  what  you  seem  to  mean,  you  mean  rank 
insult." 

"I  mean  the  truth,"  said  Edgar.  "It's  a  pity  the  truth 
should  be  insulting." 

Guest  glared  a  moment,  like  a  man  intently  taking 
thought  for  self-defence.  But  he  was  piteously  unmasked. 
His  genial  smile  had  taken  flight  and  left  mere  vulgar  con- 
fusion. "This  is  between  ourselves,  sir,"  he  cried,  angrily 
turning  to  me. 

"A  thousand  pardons,"  I  said,  and  passed  along.  I 
began  to  be  doubtful  as  to  the  issue  of  the  quarrel.  Edgar 
had  right  on  his  side,  but,  under  the  circumstances,  he 
might  not  have  force.  Guest  was  altogether  the  stouter, 
bigger,  weightier  person.  I  turned  and  observed  them  from 
a  distance.  Edgar's  thunderbolt  had  fallen  and  his  victim 
stood  stunned.  He  was  leaning  against  the  balustrade  of 
the  piazza,  with  his  chin  on  his  breast  and  his  eyes  sullenly 
fixed  on  his  adversary,  demoralized  and  convicted.  His 


172  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

hat  had  dropped  upon  the  floor.  Edgar  seemed  to  have 
made  a  proposal;  with  a  passionate  gesture  he  repeated  it. 
Guest  slowly  stooped  and  picked  up  his  hat,  and  Edgar  led 
the  way  toward  the  house.  A  series  of  small  sitting-rooms 
opened  by  long  windows  upon  the  piazza.  These  were  for 
the  most  part  lighted  and  empty.  Edgar  selected  one  of 
them,  and,  stopping  before  the  window,  beckoned  to  me  to 
come  to  him.  Guest,  as  I  advanced,  bestowed  upon  me  a 
scowl  of  concentrated  protest.  I  felt,  for  my  own  part,  as  if 
I  were  horribly  indelicate.  Between  Edgar  and  him  it  was 
a  question  of  morals,  but  between  him  and  myself  it  was, 
of  course,  but  one  of  manners.  "Be  so  good  as  to  walk  in," 
said  Edgar,  turning  to  me  with  a  smile  of  unprecedented 
suavity.  I  might  have  resisted  his  dictation;  I  couldn't  his 
petition. 

"In  God's  name,  what  do  you  mean  to  do?"  demanded 
Guest. 

"My  duty!  "said  Edgar.    "Coin." 

We  passed  into  the  room.  The  door  of  the  corridor  was 
open;  Guest  closed  it  with  a  passionate  kick.  Edgar  shut 
the  long  window  and  dropped  the  curtain.  In  the  same  fury 
of  mortification,  Guest  turned  out  one  of  the  two  burners 
of  the  chandelier.  There  was  still  light  enough,  however,  for 
me  to  see  him  more  distinctly  than  on  the  piazza,.  He  was 
tallish  and  stoutish,  and  yet  sleek  and  jaunty.  His  fine 
blue  eye  was  a  trifle  weak,  perhaps,  and  his  handsome 
grizzled  beard  was  something  too  foppishly  trimmed;  but, 
on  the  whole,  he  was  a  most  comely  man.  He  was  dressed 
with  the  punctilious  elegance  of  a  man  who  loved  luxury 
and  appreciated  his  own  good  points.  A  little  moss-rose- 
bud figured  in  the  lappet  of  his  dark-blue  coat.  His  whole 
person  seemed  redolent  of  what  are  called  the  "feelings  of 
a  gentleman."  Confronted  and  contrasted  with  him  under 
the  lamp,  my  step-brother  seemed  wofully  mean  and  gro- 
tesque; though  for  a  conflict  of  forces  that  lay  beneath 
the  surface,  he  was  visibly  the  better  equipped  of  the  two. 
He  seemed  to  tremble  and  quiver  with  inexorable  purpose. 
I  felt  that  he  would  heed  no  admonitory  word  of  mine,  that 
I  could  not  in  the  least  hope  to  blunt  the  edge  of  his  re- 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  173 

sentment,  and  that  I  must  on  the  instant  decide  either  to 
stand  by  him  or  leave  him.  But  while  I  stood  thus  un- 
graciously gazing  at  poor  Guest,  the  instant  passed.  Curi- 
osity and  a  mingled  sympathy  with  each — to  say  nothing 
of  a  touch  of  that  relish  for  a  fight  inherent  in  the  truly 
masculine  bosom — sealed  my  lips  and  arrested  my  steps. 
And  yet  my  heart  paid  this  graceful  culprit  the  compliment 
of  beating  very  violently  on  his  behalf. 

"I  wish  you  to  repeat  before  my  brother,"  said  Edgar, 
"the  three  succinct  denials  to  which  you  have  just  treated 
me." 

Guest  looked  at  the  ceiling  with  a  trembling  lip.  Then 
dropping  upon  the  sofa,  he  began  to  inspect  his  handsome 
finger-nails  mechanically,  in  the  manner  of  one  who  hears 
in  some  horrible  hush  of  all  nature  the  nearing  foosteps 
of  doom.  "Come,  repeat  them!"  cried  Edgar.  "It's  really 
delicious.  You  never  wrote  to  Stevens  that  you  had  my  as- 
sent in  writing  to  the  sale  of  the  bonds.  You  never  showed 
Stevens  my  telegram  from  Boston,  and  assured  him  that  my 
'Do  as  you  think  best'  was  a  permission  to  raise  money  on 
them.  If  it's  not  forgery  sir,  it's  next  door  to  it,  and  ai 
very  flimsy  partition  between." 

Guest  leaned  back  on  the  sofa,  with  his  hands  grasping 
his  knees.  "You  might  have  let  things  stand  a  week  or 
so,"  he  said,  with  unnatural  mildness.  "You  might  have 
had  common  patience.  Good  God,  there's  a  gentlemanly 
way  of  doing  things!  A  man  doesn't  begin  to  roar  for  a 
pinch.  I  would  have  got  things  square  again." 

"0,  it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  spoil  them!  It  was 
such  a  pretty  piece  of  knavery!  Give  the  devil  his  due!" 

"I  would  have  rearranged  matters,"  Guest  went  on.  "It 
was  just  a  temporary  convenience.  I  supposed  I  was  deal- 
ing with  a  man  of  common  courtesy.  But  what  are  you  to 
say  to  a  gentleman  who  says,  'Sir,  I  trust  you/  and  theft 
looks  through  the  keyhole?" 

"Upon  my  word,  when  I  hear  you  scuttling  through  the 
window,"  cried  Edgar,  "I  think  it's  time  I  should  break 
down  the  door.  For  God's  sake,  don't  nauseate  me  with 
any  more  lies!  You  know  as  well  as  you  sit  there,  that  you 


174  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

had  neither  chance  nor  means  nor  desire  to  redeem  your 
fraud.  You'd  cut  the  bridge  behind  you!  You  thought 
you'd  been  knowing  enough  to  eat  your  cake  and  have  it, 
to  lose  your  virtue  and  keep  your  reputation,  to  sink  half 
my  property  through  a  trap-door  and  then  stand  whistling 
and  looking  t'  other  way  while  I  scratched  my  head  and 
wondered  what  the  devil  was  in  it!  Sit  down  there  and 
write  me  your  note  for  twenty  thousand  dollars  at  twenty 
days." 

Guest  was  silent  a  moment.  "Propose  something  reas- 
onable," he  said,  with  the  same  tragic  gentleness. 

"I  shall  let  the  law  reason  about  it." 

Guest  gave  a  little  start  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
"The  law  wouldn't  help  you,"  he  answered,  without  look- 
ing up. 

"Indeed!  do  you  think  it  would  help  you?  Stoddard  and 
Hale  will  help  me.  I  spoke  to  them  this  morning." 

Guest  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Good  heavens!  I  hope  you 
mentioned  no  names." 

"Only  one!"  said  Edgar. 

Guest  wiped  his  forehead  and  actually  tried  to  smile. 
"That  was  your  own,  of  course!  Well,  sir,  I  hope  they  ad- 
vised you  to — a — temper  justice  with  mercy." 

"They  are  not  parsons,  Mr.  Guest;  they  are  lawyers. 
They  accept  the  case." 

Guest  dropped  on  the  sofa,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  burst  into  tears.  "O  my  soul!"  he  cried.  His  soul, 
poor  man!  was  a  rough  term  for  name  and  fame  and  com- 
fort and  all  that  made  his  universe.  It  was  a  pitiful  sight. 

"Look  here,  Edgar,"  I  said.  "Don't  press  things  too 
hard.  I'm  not  a  parson  either " 

"No,  you've  not  that  excuse  for  your  sentimentality!" 
Edgar  broke  out.  "Here  it  is,  of  course!  Here  come  folly 
and  fear  and  ignorance  maundering  against  the  primary 
laws  of  life!  Is  rascality  alone  of  all  things  in  the  world 
to  be  handled  without  gloves?  Didn't  he  press  me  hard? 
He's  danced  his  dance, — let  him  pay  the  piper!  Am  I  a 
child,  a  woman,  a  fool,  to  stand  and  haggle  with  a  swindler? 
Am  I  to  go  to  the  wall  to  make  room  for  impudent  fraud? 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  175 

Not  while  I  have  eyes  to  know  black  from  white!  I'm 
a  decent  man.  I'm  this  or  I'm  nothing.  For  twenty  years 
I've  done  my  best  for  order  and  thrift  and  honesty.  I've 
never  yielded  an  inch  to  the  detestable  sharp  practice  that 
meets  one  nowadays  at  every  turn.  I've  hated  fraud  as  I 
hate  all  bad  economy;  I've  no  more  patience  with  it  than  a 
bull  with  a  red  rag.  Fraud  is  fraud;  it's  waste,  it's  wanton- 
ness, it's  chaos;  and  I  shall  never  give  it  the  go-by.  When 
I  catch  it,  I  shall  hold  it  fast,  and  call  all  honest  men  to 
see  how  vile  and  drivelling  a  thing  it  is!" 

Guest  sat  rigidly  fixed,  with  his  eyes  on  the  carpet.  "Do 
you  expect  to  get  your  money?"  he  finally  demanded. 

"My  money  be  hanged!  I  expect  to  let  people  know 
how  they  may  be  served  if  they  intrust  their  affairs  to  you! 
A  man's  property,  sir,  is  a  man's  person.  It's  as  if  you  had 
given  be  a  blow  in  the  chest!" 

Guest  came  towards  him  and  took  him  by  the  button- 
hole. "Now  see  here,"  he  said,  with  the  same  desperate 
calmness.  "You  call  yourself  a  practical  man.  Don't  go 
on  like  one  of  those  d — d  long-haired  reformers.  You're 
off  the  track.  Don't  attempt  too  much.  Don't  make  me 
confoundedly  uncomfortable  out  of  pure  fantasticality. 
Come,  sir,  you're  a  man  of  the  world."  And  he  patted 
him  gently  on  the  shoulder.  "Give  me  a  chance.  I  con- 
fess to  not  having  been  quite  square.  There!  My  very 
dear  sir,  let  me  get  on  my  legs  again." 

"O,  you  confess!"  cried  Edgar.  "That's  a  vast  comfort. 
You'll  never  do  it  again!  Not  if  I  know  it.  But  other 
people,  eh?  Suppose  I  had  been  a  decent  widow  with  six 
children,  and  not  a  penny  but  that!  You'd  confess  again, 
I  suppose.  Would  your  confession  butter  their  bread! 
Let  your  confession  be  public!" 

"My  confession  is  public!"  and  Guest,  with  averted  eyes, 
jerked  his  head  towards  me. 

"O,  my  step-brother!  Why,  he's  the  most  private  crea- 
ture in  the  world.  Cheat  him  and  he'll  thank  you!  David, 
I  retain  you  as  a  witness  that  Mr.  Guest  has  confessed." 

"Nothing  will  serve  you  then?    You  mean  to  prosecute?" 

"I  mean  to  prosecute." 


1 76  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

The  poor  man's  face  flushed  crimson,  and  the  great 
sweat-drops  trickled  from  his  temples.  "O  you  blundering 
brute!"  he  cried.  "Do  you  know  what  you  mean  when 
you  say  that?  Do  we  live  in  a  civilized  world?" 

"Not  altogether,"  said  Edgar.  "But  I  shall  help  it 
along." 

"Have  you  lived  among  decent  people?  Have  you  known 
women  whom  it  was  an  honor  to  please?  Have  you  cared 
for  name  and  fame  and  love?  Have  you  had  a  dear  daugh- 
ter?" 

"If  I  had  a  dear  daughter,"  cried  Edgar,  flinching  the 
least  bit  at  this  outbreak,  "I  trust  my  dear  daughter  would 
have  kept  me  honest!  Not  the  sin,  then,  but  the  detection 
unfits  a  man  for  ladies'  society! — Did  you  kiss  your  daugh- 
ter the  day  you  juggled  away  my  bonds?" 

"If  it  will  avail  with  you,  I  didn't.  Consider  her  feel- 
ings. My  fault  has  been  that  I  have  been  too  tender  a 
father, — that  I  have  loved  the  poor  girl  better  than  my  own 
literal  integrity.  I  became  embarrassed  because  I  hadn't 
the  heart  to  tell  her  that  she  must  spend  less  money.  As 
if  to  the  wisest  sweetest  girl  in  the  world  a  whisper  wouldn't 
have  sufficed!  As  if  five  minutes  of  her  divine  advice 
wouldn't  have  set  me  straight  again!  But  the  stress  of  my 
embarrassment  was  such " 

"Embarrassment!"  Edgar  broke  in.  "That  may  mean 
anything.  In  the  case  of  an  honest  man  it  may  be  a  motive 
for  leniency;  in  that  of  a  knave  it's  a  ground  for  increased 
suspicion." 

Guest,  I  felt,  was  a  good-natured  sinner.  Just  as  he 
lacked  rectitude  of  purpose,  he  lacked  rigidity  of  temper, 
and  he  found  in  the  mysteries  of  his  own  heart  no  clew  to 
my  step-brother's  monstrous  implacability.  Looking  at  him 
from  head  to  foot  with  a  certain  dignity, — a  reminiscence 
of  his  former  pomposity, — "I  do  you  the  honor,  sir,"  he 
said,  "to  believe  you  are  insane." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  you  believe  nothing  of  the  sort," 
cried  Edgar. 

I  saw  that  Guest's  opposition  was  acting  upon  him  as  a 
lively  irritant.  "Isn't  it  possible,"  I  asked,  "to  adopt  some 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  177 

compromise?  You're  not  as  forgiving  a  man  under  the 
circumstances  as  I  should  be." 

"In  these  things,"  retorted  Edgar,  without  ceremony, 
"a  forgiving  man  is  a  fool." 

"Well,  take  a  fool's  suggestion.  You  can  perhaps  get  sat- 
isfaction without  taking  your  victim  into  court. — Let  Mr. 
Guest  write  his  confession." 

Guest  had  not  directly  looked  at  me  since  we  entered  the 
room.  At  these  words  he  slowly  turned  and  gave  me  a 
sombre  stare  by  which  the  brilliancy  of  my  suggestion 
seemed  somewhat  obscured.  But  my  interference  y/as 
kindly  meant,  and  his  reception  of  it  seemed  rather  un- 
grateful. At  best,  however,  I  could  be  but  a  thorn  in  his 
side.  I  had  done  nothing  to  earn  my  sport.  Edgar  here- 
upon flourished  his  hand  as  if  to  indicate  the  superfluity 
of  my  advice.  "All  in  good  time,  if  you  please.  If  I'm. 
insane,  there's  a  method  in  my  madness!"  He  paused, 
and  his  eyes  glittered  with  an  intensity  which  might  in- 
deed, for  the  moment,  have  seemed  to  be  that  of  a  dis- 
ordered brain.  I  wondered  what  was  coming.  "Do  me 
the  favor  to  get  down  on  your  knees."  Guest  jerked  him- 
self up  as  if  he  had  received  a  galvanic  shock.  "Yes,  I 
know  what  I  say, — on  your  knees.  Did  you  never  say 
your  prayers?  You  can't  get  out  of  a  tight  place  without 
being  squeezed.  I  won't  take  less.  I  sha'n't  feel  like  an 
honest  man  till  I've  seen  you  there  at  my  feet." 

There  was  in  the  contrast  between  the  inflated  self-com- 
placency of  Edgar's  face  as  he  made  this  speech,  and  the 
blank  horror  of  the  other's  as  he  received  it,  something  so 
poignantly  grotesque  that  it  acted  upon  my  nerves  like  a 
mistimed  joke,  and  I  burst  into  irrepressible  laughter. 
Guest  walked  away  to  the  window  with  some  muttered  im- 
precation, pushed  aside  the  curtain,  and  stood  looking  out. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  turn,  he  marched  back  and  stood  be- 
fore my  brother.  He  was  drenched  with  perspiration.  "A 
moment,"  said  Edgar.  "You're  very  hot.  Take  off  your 
coat."  Guest,  to  my  amazement,  took  it  off  and  flung  it 
upon  the  floor.  "Your  shirt-sleeves  will  serve  as  a  kind  of 


i;8  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

sackcloth  and  ashes.  Fold  your  hands,  so.  Now,  beg  my 
pardon." 

It  was  a  revolting  sight, — this  man  of  ripe  maturity  and 
massive  comeliness  on  his  two  knees,  his  pale  face  bent  upon 
his  breast,  his  body  trembling  with  the  effort  to  keep  his 
shameful  balance;  and  above  him  Edgar,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  solemn  and  ugly  as  a  miniature  idol,  with 
his  glittering  eyes  fixed  in  a  sort  of  rapture  on  the  opposite 
wall.  I  walked  away  to  the  window.  There  was  a  perfect 
stillness,  broken  only  by  Guest's  hard  breathing.  I  have 
no  notion  how  long  it  lasted;  when  I  turned  back  into  the 
room  he  was  still  speechless  and  fixed,  as  if  he  were  ashamed 
to  rise.  Edgar  pointed  to  a  blotting-book  and  inkstand 
which  stood  on  a  small  table  against  the  wall.  "See  if 
there  is  pen  and  paper!"  I  obeyed  and  made  a  clatter  at 
the  table,  to  cover  our  companion's  retreat.  When  I  had 
laid  out  a  sheet  of  paper  he  was  on  his  feet  again.  "Sit 
down  and  write,"  Edgar  went  on.  Guest  picked  up  his  coat 
and  busied  himself  mechanically  with  brushing  off  the  parti- 
cles of  dust.  Then  he  put  it  on  and  sat  down  at  the 
table. 

"I  dictate,"  Edgar  began.  "I  hereby,  at  the  command  of 
Edgar  Musgrave,  Esq.,  whom  I  have  grossly  wronged,  de- 
clare myself  a  swindler."  At  these  words,  Guest  laid  down 
the  pen  and  sank  back  in  his  chair,  emitting  long  groans, 
like  a  man  with  a  violent  toothache.  But  he  had  taken 
that  first  step  which  costs,  and  after  a  moment's  rest  he 
started  afresh.  "I  have  on  my  bended  knees,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  Musgrave  and  his  step-brother,  expressed  my 
contrition;  in  consideration  of  which  Mr.  Musgrave  forfeits 
his  incontestable  right  to  publish  his  injury  in  a  court  of 
justice.  Furthermore,  I  solemnly  declare  myself  his  debtor 
in  the  sum  of  twenty  thousand  dollars;  which,  on  his  re- 
mission of  the  interest,  and  under  pain  of  exposure  in  a 
contrary  event,  I  pledge  myself  to  repay  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment.  I  thank  Mr.  Musgrave  for  his  generos- 
ity." 

Edgar  spoke  very  slowly,  and  the  scratching  of  Guest's 
pen  kept  pace  with  his  words.  "Now  sign  and  date,"  he 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  179 

said;  and  the  other,  with  a  great  heroic  dash,  consummated 
this  amazing  document.  He  then  pushed  it  away,  and  rose 
and  bestowed  upon  us  a  look  which  I  long  remembered. 
As  outraged  human  soul  was  abroad  in  the  world,  with 
which  henceforth  I  felt  I  should  have  somehow  to  reckon. 

Edgar  possessed  himself  of  the  paper  and  read  it  coolly 
to  the  end,  without  blushing.  Happy  Edgar!  Guest 
watched  him  fold  it  and  put  it  into  his  great  morocco 
pocket-book.  "I  suppose,"  said  Guest,  "that  this  is  the 
end  of  your  generosity." 

"I  have  nothing  further  to  remark,"  said  Edgar. 

"Have  you,  by  chance,  anything  to  remark,  Mr.  Step- 
brother?" Guest  demanded,  turning  to  me,  with  a  fierce- 
ness which  showed  how  my  presence  galled  him. 

I  had  been,  to  my  own  sense,  so  abjectly  passive  during 
the  whole  scene  that,  to  reinstate  myself  as  a  responsible 
creature,  I  attempted  to  utter  an  original  sentiment.  "I 
pity  you,"  I  said. 

But  I  had  not  been  happy  in  my  choice.  "Faugh,  you 
great  hulking  brute!"  Guest  roared,  for  an  answer. 

The  scene  at  this  point  might  have  passed  into  another 
phase,  had  it  not  been  interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the 
door  from  the  corridor.  "A  lady,"  announced  a  servant, 
flinging  it  back. 

The  lady  revealed  herself  as  the  friend  with  whom  Guest 
had  been  in  conversation  on  the  piazza,.  She  was  appar- 
ently not  a  person  to  mind  the  trifle  of  her  friend's 
being  accompanied  by  two  unknown  gentlemen,  and  she 
advanced,  shawled  as  if  for  departure,  and  smiling  re- 
proachfully. "Ah,  you  ungrateful  creature,"  she  cried, 
"you've  lost  my  rosebud!" 

Guest  came  up  smiling,  as  they  say.  "Your  own  hands 
fastened  it! — Where  is  my  daughter?" 

"She's  coming.  We've  been  looking  for  you,  high  and 
low.  What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  here?  Business? 
You've  no  business  with  business.  You  came  here  to  rest. 
Excuse  me,  gentlemen!  My  carriage  has  been  waiting  this 
ten  minutes.  Give  me  your  arm." 

It  seemed  to  me  time  we  should  disembarrass  the  poor 


i8o  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

man  of  our  presence.  I  opened  the  window  and  stepped 
out  upon  the  piazza.  Just  as  Edgar  had  followed  me,  a 
young  lady  hastily  entered  the  room. 

"My  dearest  father!"  she  exclaimed. 

Looking  at  her  unseen  from  without,  I  recognized  with 
amazement  my  charming  friend  of  the  Episcopal  chapel, 
the  woman  to  whom — I  felt  it  now  with  a  sort  of  convulsion 
— I  had  dedicated  a  sentiment. 


in 

My  discovery  gave  me  that  night  much  to  think  of,  and  I 
thought  of  it  more  than  I  slept.  My  foremost  feeling  was 
one  of  blank  dismay  as  if  Misfortune,  whom  I  had  been 
used  to  regard  as  a  good-natured  sort  of  goddess,  who  came 
on  with  an  easy  stride,  letting  off  signals  of  warning  to 
those  who  stood  in  her  path,  should  have  blinded  her 
lantern  and  muffled  her  steps  in  order  to  steal  a  march  on 
poor  me, — of  all  men  in  the  world!  It  seemed  a  hideous 
practical  joke.  "If  I  had  known, — if  I  had  only  known!" 
I  kept  restlessly  repeating.  But  toward  morning,  "Say  I 
had  known,"  I  asked  myself,  "could  I  have  acted  other- 
wise? I  might  have  protested  by  my  absence;  but  would 
I  not  thus  have  surrendered  poor  Guest  to  the  vengeance 
of  a  very  Shylock?  Had  not  that  suggestion  of  mine 
diverted  the  current  of  Edgar's  wrath  and  saved  his  ad- 
versary from  the  last  dishonor?  Without  it,  Edgar  would 
have  held  his  course  and  demanded  his  pound  of  flesh!" 
Say  what  I  would,  however,  I  stood  confronted  with  this 
acutely  uncomfortable  fact,  that  by  lending  a  hand  at  that 
revolting  interview,  I  had  struck  a  roundabout  blow  at  the 
woman  to  whom  I  owed  a  signally  sweet  impression.  Well, 
my  blow  would  never  reach  her,  and  I  would  devise  some 
kindness  that  should!  So  I  consoled  myself,  and  in  the 
midst  of  my  regret  I  found  a  still  further  compensation  in 
the  thought  that  chance,  rough-handed  though  it  had  been, 
had  forged  between  us  a  stouter  bond  than  any  I  had 
ventured  to  dream  of  as  I  waxed  sentimental  a  few  hours 
before.  Her  father's  being  a  rascal  threw  her  image  into 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  181 

more  eloquent  relief.  If  she  suspected  it,  she  had  all  the 
interest  of  sorrow;  if  not,  she  wore  the  tender  grace  of 
danger. 

The  result  of  my  meditations  was  that  I  determined  to 
defer  indefinitely  my  departure  from  L .  Edgar  in- 
formed me,  in  the  course  of  the  following  day,  that  Guest 
had  gone  by  the  early  train  to  New  York,  and  that  his 
daughter  had  left  the  hotel  (where  my  not  having  met  her 
before  was  apparently  the  result  of  her  constant  attendance 
on  her  father  during  his  illness)  and  taken  up  her  residence 
with  the  lady  in  whose  company  we  had  seen  her.  Mrs*. 
Beck;  Edgar  had  learned  this  lady's  name  to  be;  and  I 
fancied  it  was  upon  her  that  Miss  Guest  had  made  her 
morning  call.  To  begin  with,  therefore,  I  knew  where  to 
look  for  her.  "That's  the  charming  girl,"  I  said  to  Edgar, 
"whom  you  might  have  plunged  into  disgrace." 

"How  do  you  know  she's  charming?"  he  asked. 

"I  judge  by  her  face." 

"Humph!  Judge  her  father  by  his  face  and  he's  charm- 
ing." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  assuring  my  step-brother  that  no 
such  thing  could  be  said  of  him;  but  in  fact  he  had  -sud- 
denly assumed  a  singularly  fresh  and  jovial  air.  "I  don't 
know  what  it  is,"  he  said,  "but  I  feel  like  a  trump;  I 
haven't  stood  so  firm  on  my  legs  in  a  twelvemonth.  I 
wonder  whether  the  waters  have  already  begun  to  act. 
Really,  I'm  elated.  Suppose,  in  the  afternoon  of  my  life, 
I  were  to  turn  out  a  sound  man.  It  winds  me  up,  sir.  I 
shall  take  another  glass  before  dinner." 

To  do  Miss  Guest  a  kindness,  I  reflected,  I  must  see  her 
again.  How  to  compass  an  interview  and  irradiate  my 
benevolence,  it  was  not  easy  to  determine.  Sooner  or  later, 
of  course,  the  chances  of  watering-place  life  would  serve 
me.  Meanwhile,  I  felt  most  agreeably  that  here  was  some- 
thing more  finely  romantic  than  that  feverish  dream  of  my 
youth,  treating  Edgar  some  fine  day  to  the  snub  direct.  As- 
suredly, I  was  not  in  love;  I  had  cherished  a  youthful  pas- 
sion, and  I  knew  the  signs  and  symptoms;  but  I  was  in 
a  state  of  mind  that  really  gave  something  of  the  same 


1 82  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

zest  to  consciousness.  For  a  couple  of  days  I  watched 
and  waited  for  my  friend  in  those  few  public  resorts  in 

which  the  little  world  of  L used  most  to  congregate, — 

the  drive,  the  walk,  the  post  office,  and  the  vicinage  of  the 
spring.  At  last,  as  she  was  nowhere  visible,  I  betook  my- 
self to  the  little  Episcopal  chapel,  and  strolled  along  the 
road,  past  a  scattered  cluster  of  decent  boarding-houses,  in 
one  of  which  I  imagined  her  hidden.  But  most  of  them  had 
a  shady  strip  of  garden  stretching  toward  the  river,  and 
thitherward,  of  course,  rather  than  upon  the  public  road, 
their  inmates  were  likely  to  turn  their  faces.  A  happy 
accident  at  last  came  to  my  aid.  After  three  or  four  days 
at  the  hotel,  Edgar  began  to  complain  that  the  music  in  the 
evening  kept  him  awake  and  to  wonder  whether  he  might 
find  tolerable  private  lodgings.  He  was  more  and  more  in- 
terested in  the  waters.  I  offered,  with  alacrity,  to  make  in- 
quiries for  him,  and  as  a  first  step,  I  returned  to  the  little 
colony  of  riverside  boarding-houses.  I  began  with  one  I 
had  made  especial  note  of, — the  smallest,  neatest,  and  most 
secluded.  The  mistress  of  the  establishment  was  at  a 
neighbor's,  and  I  was  requested  to  await  her  return.  I 
stepped  out  of  the  long  parlor  window,  and  began  hopefully 
to  explore  the  garden.  My  hopes  were  brightly  rewarded. 
In  a  shady  summer-house,  on  a  sort  of  rustic  embankment, 
overlooking  the  stream,  I  encountered  Miss  Guest  and  her 
coquettish  duenna.  She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with 
a  dubious  air,  as  if  to  satisfy  herself  that  she  was  dis- 
tinctly expected  to  recognize  me,  and  then,  as  I  stood  pro- 
claiming my  hopes  in  an  appealing  smile,  she  bade  me  a 
frank  good-morning.  We  talked,  I  lingered,  and  at  last, 
when  the  proper  moment  came  for  my  going  my  way  again, 
I  sat  down  and  paid  a  call  in  form. 

"I  see  you  know  my  name,"  Miss  Guest  said,  with  the 
peculiar — the  almost  boyish — directness  which  seemed  to  be 
her  most  striking  feature;  "I  can't  imagine  how  you  learned 
it,  but  if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  your  own,  I'll  in- 
troduce you  to  Mrs.  Beck.  You  must  learn  that  she's  my 
deputed  chaperon,  my  she-dragon,  and  that  I'm  not  to  know 
you  unless  she  knows  you  first  and  approves." 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  183 

Mrs.  Beck  poised  a  gold  eye-glass  upon  her  pretty 
retrousse  nose, — not  sorry,  I  think,  to  hold  it  there  a  mo- 
ment with  a  plump  white  hand  and  acquit  herself  of  one 
of  her  most  effective  manoeuvres, — and  glanced  at  me  with 
mock  severity.  "He's  a  harmless-looking  young  man,  my 
dear,"  she  declared,  "and  I  don't  think  your  father  would 
object.'7  And  with  this  odd  sanction  I  became  intimate 
with  Miss  Guest, — intimate  as,  by  the  soft  operation  of 
summer  and  rural  juxtaposition,  an  American  youth  is  free, 
to  become  with  an  American  maid.  I  had  told  my  friends, 
of  course,  the  purpose  of  my  visit,  and  learned,  with  com- 
plete satisfaction,  that  there  was  no  chance  for  Mr.  Mus- 
grave,  as  they  occupied  the  only  three  comfortable  rooms 
in  the  house, — two  as  bedrooms,  the  third  as  a  common  par- 
lor. Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  introduce  Edgar  dans 
cette  galere.  I  inquired  elsewhere,  but  saw  nothing  I  could 
recommend,  and,  on  making  my  report  to  him,  found  him 
quite  out  of  conceit  of  his  project.  A  lady  had  just  been 
telling  him  horrors  of  the  local  dietary  and  making  him  feel 
that  he  was  vastly  well  off  with  the  heavy  bread  and  cold 
gravy  of  the  hotel.  It  was  then  too,  I  think,  he  first  men- 
tioned the  symptoms  of  that  relapse  which  subsequently 
occurred.  He  would  run  no  risks. 

I  had  prepared  Miss  Guest,  I  fancy,  to  regard  another 
visit  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  paid  several  in  rapid  suc- 
cession; for,  under  the  circumstances,  it  would  have  been 
a  pity  to  be  shy.  Her  father,  she  told  me,  expected  to  be 
occupied  for  three  or  four  weeks  in  New  York,  so  that  for 
the  present  I  was  at  ease  on  that  score.  If  I  was  to  please, 
I  must  go  bravely  to  work.  So  I  burned  my  ships  behind 
me,  and  blundered  into  gallantry  with  an  ardor  over  which, 
in  my  absence,  the  two  ladies  must  have  mingled  their 
smiles.  I  don't  suppose  I  passed  for  an  especially  know- 
ing fellow;  but  I  kept  my  friends  from  wearying  of  each 
other  (for  such  other  chance  acquaintances  as  the  place 
afforded  they  seemed  to  have  little  inclination),  and  by  my 
services  as  a  retailer  of  the  local  gossip,  a  reader  of  light 
literature,  an  explorer  and  suggester  of  drives  ancl  strolls, 
and,  more  particularly,  as  an  oarsman  in  certain  happy 


1 84  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

rowing-parties  on  the  placid  river  whose  slow,  safe  current 
made  such  a  pretty  affectation  of  Mrs.  Beck's  little  shrieks 
and  shudders,  I  very  fairly  earned  my  welcome.  That 
detestable  scene  at  the  hotel  used  to  seem  a  sort  of  horrid 
fable  as  I  sat  in  the  sacred  rural  stillness,  in  that  peaceful 
streamside  nook,  learning  what  a  divinely  honest  girl  she 
was,  this  daughter  of  the  man  whose  dishonesty  I  had  so 
complacently  attested.  I  wasted  many  an  hour  in  wonder- 
ing on  what  terms  she  stood  with  her  father's  rankling  secret, 
with  his  poor  pompous  peccability  in  general,  if  not  with 
Edgar's  particular  grievance.  I  used  to  fancy  that  certain 
momentary  snatches  of  revery  in  the  midst  of  our  gayety, 
and  even  more,  certain  effusions  of  wilful  and  excessive 
gayety  at  our  duller  moments,  portended  some  vague  tor- 
ment in  her  filial  heart.  She  would  quit  her  place  and 
wander  apart  for  a  while,  leaving  me  to  gossip  it  out  with 
Mrs.  Beck,  as  if  she  were  oppressed  by  the  constant  need 
of  seeming  interested  in  us.  But  she  would  come  back 
with  a  face  that  told  so  few  tales  that  I  always  ended  by 
keeping  my  compassion  in  the  case  from  myself,  and  being 
reminded  afresh,  by  my  lively  indisposition  to  be  thus 
grossly  lumped,  as  it  were,  with  the  duenna,  of  how  much 
I  was  interested  in  the  damsel.  In  truth,  the  romance  of 
the  matter  apart,  Miss  Guest  was  a  lovely  girl.  I  had  read 
her  dimly  in  the  little  chapel,  but  I  had  read  her  aright. 
Felicity  in  freedom,  that  was  her  great  charm.  I  have 
never  known  a  woman  so  simply  and  sincerely  original,  so 
finely  framed  to  enlist  the  imagination  and  hold  expectation 
in  suspense,  and  yet  leave  the  judgment  in  such  blissful 
quietude.  She  had  a  genius  for  frankness ;  this  was  her  only 
coquetry  and  her  only  cleverness,  and  a  woman  coulcl  not 
have  acquitted  herself  more  naturally  of  the  trying  and  un- 
gracious rdle  of  being  expected  to  be  startling.  It  was 
the  pur>e  personal  accent  of  Miss  Guest's  walk  and  conver- 
sation that  gave  them  this  charm;  everything  she  did  and 
said  was  gilded  by  a  ray  of  conviction;  and  to  a  respectful 
admirer  who  had  not  penetrated  to  the  sources  of  spiritual 
motive  in  her  being,  this  sweet,  natural,  various  emphasis 
of  conduct  was  ineffably  provoking.  Her  creed,  as  I 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  185 

guessed  it,  might  have  been  resumed  in  the  simple  notion 
that  a  man  should  do  his  best;  and  nature  had  treated  her, 
I  fancied,  to  some  brighter  vision  of  uttermost  manhood 
than  illumined  most  honest  fellows'  consciences.  Frank 
as  she  was,  I  imagined  she  had  a  remote  reserve  of  holiest 
contempt.  She  made  me  feel  deplorably  ignorant  and  idle 
and  unambitious,  a  foolish,  boyish  spendthrift  of  time  and 
strength  and  means;  and  I  speedily  came  to  believe  that 
to  win  her  perfect  favor  was  a  matter  of  something  more 
than  undoing  a  stupid  wrong, — doing,  namely,  some  very 
pretty  piece  of  right.  And  she  was  poor  Mr.  Guest's  daugh- 
ter, withal!  Truly,  fate  was  a  master  of  irony. 

I  ought  in  justice  to  say  that  I  had  Mrs.  Beck  more  par- 
ticularly to  thank  for  my  welcome,  and  for  the  easy  terms 
on  which  I  had  become  an  habitue  of  the  little  summer- 
house  by  the  river.  How  could  I  know  how  much  or  how 
little  the  younger  lady  meant  by  her  smiles  and  hand- 
shakes, by  laughing  at  my  jokes  and  consenting  to  be 
rowed  about  in  my  boat?  Mrs.  Beck  made  no  secret  of  her 
relish  for  the  society  of  a  decently  agreeable  man,  or  of 
her  deeming  some  such  pastime  the  indispensable  spice  of 
life;  and  in  Mr.  Guest's  absence,  I  was  graciously  admitted 
to  competition.  The  precise  nature  of  their  mutual  senti- 
ments— Mr.  Guest's  and  hers — I  was  slightly  puzzled  to 
divine,  and  in  so  far  as  my  conjectures  seemed  plausible,  I 
confess  they  served  as  but  a  scanty  offset  to  my  knowledge 
of  the  gentleman's  foibles.  This  lady  was,  to  my  sense,  a 
very  artificial  charmer,  and  I  think  that  a  goodly  portion  of 
my  admiration  for  Miss  Guest  rested  upon  a  little  private 
theory  that  for  her  father's  sake  she  thus  heroically  ac- 
cepted a  companion  whom  she  must  have  relished  but  little. 
Mrs.  Beck's  great  point  was  her  "preservation."  It  was 
rather  too  great  a  point  for  my  taste,  and  partook  too  much 
of  the  nature  of  a  physiological  curiosity.  Her  age  really 
mattered  little,  for  with  as  many  years  as  you  pleased  one 
way  or  the  other,  she  was  still  a  triumph  of  juvenility. 
Plump,  rosy,  dimpled,  frizzled,  with  rings  on  her  fingers 
and  rosettes  on  her  toes,  she  used  to  seem  to  me  a  sort 
of  fantastic  vagary  or  humorous  experiment  of  time.  Or, 


1 86  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

she  might  have  been  fancied  a  strayed  shepherdess  from 
some  rococo  Arcadia,  which  had  melted  into  tradition  dur- 
ing some  profane  excursion  of  her  own,  so  that  she  found 
herself  saddled  in  our  prosy  modern  world  with  this  ab- 
surdly perpetual  prime.  All  this  was  true,  at  least  of  her 
pretty  face  and  figure;  but  there  was  another  Mrs.  Beck, 
visible  chiefly  to  the  moral  eye,  who  seemed  to  me  exces- 
sively wrinkled  and  faded  and  world-wise,  and  whom  I 
used  to  fancy  I  could  hear  shaking  about  in  this  enamelled 
envelope,  like  a  dried  nut  in  its  shell.  Mrs.  Beck's  mor- 
ality was  not  Arcadian;  or  if  it  was,  it  was  that  of  a  shep- 
herdess with  a  keen  eye  to  the  state  of  the  wool  and  the 
mutton  market,  and  a  lively  perception  of  the  possible 
advantages  of  judicious  partnership.  She  had  no  design, 
I  suppose,  of  proposing  to  me  a  consolidation  of  our  senti- 
mental and  pecuniary  interests,  but  she  performed  her 
duties  of  duenna  with  such  conscientious  precision  that 
she  shared  my  society  most  impartially  with  Miss  Guest. 
I  never  had  the  good  fortune  of  finding  myself  alone  with 
this  young  lady.  She  might  have  managed  it,  I  fancied, 
if  she  had  wished,  and  the  little  care  she  took  about  it 
was  a  sign  of  that  indifference  which  stirs  the  susceptible 
heart  to  effort.  "It's  really  detestable,"  I  at  last  ventured 
to  seize  the  chance  to  declare,  "that  you  and  I  should 
never  be  alone." 

Miss  Guest  looked  at  me  with  an  air  of  surprise.  "Your 
remark  is  startling,"  she  said,  "unless  you  have  some  ex- 
cellent reason  for  demanding  this  interesting  seclusion." 

My  reason  was  not  ready  just  ye.t,  but  it  speedily 
ripened.  A  happy  incident  combined  at  once  to  bring  it  to 
maturity  and  to  operate  a  diversion  for  Mrs.  Beck.  One 
morning  there  appeared  a  certain  Mr.  Crawford  out  of  the 
West,  a  worthy  bachelor  who  introduced  himself  to  Mrs. 
Beck  and  claimed  cousinship.  I  was  present  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  I  could  not  but  admire  the  skill  with  which  the 
lady  gauged  her  aspiring  kinsman  before  saying  yea  or 
nay  to  his  claims.  I  think  the  large  diamond  in  his  shirt- 
front  decided  her;  what  he  may  have  lacked  in  elegant  cul- 
ture was  supplied  by  this  massive  ornament.  Better  and 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  187 

brighter  than  his  diamond,  however,  was  his  frank  Western 
bonhomie,  his  simple  friendliness,  and  a  certain  half-boyish 
modesty  which  made  him  give  a  humorous  twist  to  any  ex- 
pression of  the  finer  sentiments.  He  was  a  tall,  lean  gentle- 
man, on  the  right  side  of  forty,  yellow-haired,  with  a  some- 
what arid  complexion,  and  an  irrepressible  tendency  to  cock 
back  his  hat  and  chew  his  toothpick,  and  a  spasmodic 
liability,  spasmodically  repressed  when  in  a  sedentary  pos- 
ture, to  a  centrifugal  movement  of  the  heels.  He  had  a 
clear  blue  eye,  in  which  simplicity  and  shrewdness  con- 
tended and  mingled  in  so  lively  a  fashion  that  his  glance 
was  the  oddest  dramatic  twinkle.  He  was  a  genial  sceptic. 
If  he  disbelieved  much  that  he  saw,  he  believed  everything 
he  fancied,  and  for  a  man  who  had  seen  much  of  the 
rougher  and  baser  side  of  life,  he  was  able  to  fancy  some 
very  gracious  things  of  men,  to  say  nothing  of  women.  He 
took  his  place  as  a  very  convenient  fourth  in  our  little 
party,  and  without  obtruding  his  eccentricities,  or  being  too 
often  reminded  of  a  story,  like  many  cooler  humorists,  he 
treated  us  to  a  hundred  anecdotes  of  his  adventurous  ascent 
of  the  ladder  of  fortune.  The  upshot  of  his  history  was 
that  he  was  now  owner  of  a  silver  mine  in  Arizona,  and 
that  he  proposed  in  his  own  words  to  "lay  off  and  choose. " 
Of  the  nature  of  his  choice  he  modestly  waived  specifica- 
tion; it  of  course  had  reference  to  the  sex  of  which  Mrs. 
Beck  was  an  ornament.  He  lounged  about  meanwhile  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  watching  the  flies  buzz  with  that 
air  of  ecstatically  suspended  resolve  proper  to  a  man  who 
has  sunk  a  shaft  deep  into  the  very  stuff  that  dreams  are 
made  of.  But  in  spite  of  shyness  he  exhaled  an  atmosphere 
of  regretful  celibacy  which  might  have  relaxed  the  conjugal 
piety  of  a  more  tenderly  mourning  widow  than  Mrs.  Beck. 
His  bachelor  days  were  evidently  numbered,  and  unless  I 
was  vastly  mistaken,  it  lay  in  this  lady's  discretion  to  de- 
termine the  residuary  figure.  The  two  were  just  nearly 
enough  akin  to  save  a  deal  of  time  in  courtship. 

Crawford  had  never  beheld  so  finished  a  piece  of  lady- 
hood, and  it  pleased  and  puzzled  him  and  quickened  his 
honest  grin  very  much  as  a  remarkably  neat  mechanical 


1 88  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

toy  might  have  done.  Plain  people  who  have  lived  close  to 
frank  nature  often  think  more  of  a  fine  crisp  muslin  rose 
than  of  a  group  of  dewy  petals  of  garden  growth.  Before  ten 
days  were  past,  he  had  begun  to  fumble  tenderly  with  the 
stem  of  this  unfading  flower.  Mr.  Crawford's  petits  soins 
had  something  too  much  of  the  ring  of  the  small  change  of 
the  Arizona  silver-mine,  consisting  largely  as  they  did  of 
rather  rudimentary  nosegays  compounded  by  amateur  flor- 
ists from  the  local  front-yards,  of  huge  bundles  of  "New 
York  candy"  from  the  village  store,  and  of  an  infinite 
variety  of  birch-bark  and  bead-work  trinkets.  He  was  no 
simpleton,  and  it  occurred  to  me,  indeed,  that  if  these  offer- 
ings were  not  the  tokens  and  pledges  of  a  sentiment,  they 
were  the  offset  and  substitute  of  a  sentiment;  but  if  they 
were  profuse  for  that,  they  were  scanty  for  this.  Mrs. 
Beck,  for  her  part,  seemed  minded  to  spin  the  thread  of  de- 
cision excessively  fine.  A  silver-mine  was  all  very  well,  but 
a  lover  fresh  from  the  diggings  was  to  be  put  on  probation. 
Crawford  lodged  at  the  hotel,  and  our  comings  and  go- 
ings were  often  made  together.  He  indulged  in  many  a 
dry  compliment  to  his  cousin,  and,  indeed,  declared  that 
she  was  a  magnificent  little  woman.  It  was  with  surprise, 
therefore,  that  I  learned  that  his  admiration  was  divided. 
"I've  never  seen  one  just  like  her,"  he  said;  "one  so  out 
and  out  a  woman, — smiles  and  tears  and  everything  else! 
But  Clara  comes  out  with  her  notions,  and  a  man  may  know 
what  to  expect.  I  guess  I  can  afford  a  wife  with  a  notion 
or  so!  Short  of  the  moon,  I  can  give  her  what  she  wants." 
And  I  seemed  to  hear  his  hands  producing  in  his  pockets 
that  Arizonian  tinkle  which  served  with  him  as  the  prelude 
to  renewed  utterance.  He  went  on,  "And  tells  me  I  musn't 
make  love  to  my  grandmother.  That's  a  very  pretty  way 
of  confessing  to  thirty-five.  She's  a  bit  of  coquette,  is 
Clara!"  I  handled  the  honest  fellow's  illusions  as  tenderly 
as  I  could,  and  at  last  he  eyed  me  askance  with  a  knowing 
air.  "You  praise  my  cousin,"  he  said,  "because  you  think 
I  want  you  to.  On  the  contrary,  I  want  you  to  say  some- 
thing against  her.  If  there  is  anything,  I  want  to  know 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  189 

it."  I  declared  I  knew  nothing  in  the  world;  whereupon 
Crawford,  after  a  silence,  heaved  an  impatient  sigh. 

"Really,"  said  I,  laughing,  "one  would  think  you  were 
disappointed." 

"I  wanted  to  draw  you  out,"  he  cried;  "but  you're  too 
confoundedly  polite.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Beck's  to  be  my 
fate;  it's  borne  in  on  me.  I'm  being  roped  in  fast.  But  I 
only  want  a  little  backing  to  hang  off  awhile.  Look  here," 
he  added  suddenly,  "let's  be  frank!"  and  he  stopped  and 
laid  his  hand  on  my  arm.  "That  other  young  lady  isn't  so 
pretty  as  Mrs.  Beck,  but  it  seems  to  me  I'd  kind  of  trust 
her  further.  You  didn't  know  I'd  noticed  her.  Well,  I've 
taken  her  in  little  by  little,  just  as  she  gives  herself  out. 
Jerusalem!  there's  a  woman.  But  you  know  it,  sir,  if  I'm 
not  mistaken;  and  that's  where  the  shoe  pinches.  First 
come,  first  served.  I  want  to  act  on  the  square.  Before 
I  settle  down  to  Mrs.  Beck,  I  want  to  know  distinctly! 
whether  you  put  in  a  claim  to  Miss  Guest." 

The  question  was  unexpected  and  found  me  but  half 
prepared.  "A  claim?"  I  said  "Well,  yes,  call  it  a  claim!" 

"Any  way,"  he  rejoined,  "I've  no  chance.  She'd  never 
look  at  me.  But  I  want  to  have  her  put  out  of  my  own 
head,  so  that  I  can  concentrate  on  Mrs.  B.  If  you're  not 
in  love  with  her,  my  boy,  let  me  tell  you  you  ought  to  be!- 
If  you  are,  I've  nothing  to  do  but  to  wish  you  success.  If 
you're  not,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  but  what  I  would 
go  in!  She  could  but  refuse  me.  Modesty  is  all  very  well; 
but  after  all,  it's  the  handsomest  thing  you  can  do  by  a 
woman  to  offer  yourself.  As  a  compliment  alone,  it  would 
serve.  And  really,  a  compliment  with  a  round  million  isn't 
so  bad  as  gallantry  goes  hereabouts.  You're  young  and 
smart  and  good-looking,  and  Mrs.  Beck  tells  me  you're 
rich.  If  you  succeed,  you'll  have  more  than  your  share 
of  good  things.  But  Fortune  has  her  favorites,  and  they're 
not  always  such  nice  young  men.  If  you're  in  love  well  and 
good!  If  you're  not, — by  Jove,  I  am!" 

This  admonition  was  peremptory.  My  companion's  face 
in  the  clear  starlight  betrayed  his  sagacious  sincerity.  I 
felt  a  sudden  satisfaction  in  being  summoned  to  take  my 


i  go  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

stand.  I  performed  a  rapid  operation  in  sentimental  arith- 
metic, combined  my  factors,  and  established  my  total.  It 
exceeded  expectation.  "Your  frankness  does  you  honor," 
I  said,  "and  I'm  sorry  I  can't  make  a  kinder  return.  But 
I'm  madly  in  love!" 

iv 

My  situation,  as  I  denned  it  to  Crawford,  was  not 
purely  delightful.  Close  upon  my  perception  of  the  state 
of  my  heart  followed  an  oppressive  sense  of  the  vanity  of 
my  pretensions.  I  had  cut  the  ground  from  under  my  feet; 
to  offer  myself  to  Miss  Guest  would  be  to  add  insult  to 
injury.  I  may  truly  say,  therefore,  that,  for  a  couple  of 
days,  this  manifest  passion  of  mine  rather  saddened  than 
exalted  me.  For  a  dismal  forty-eight  hours  I  left  the  two 
ladies  unvisited.  I  even  thought  of  paying  a  supreme 
tribute  to  delicacy  and  taking  a  summary  departure.  Some 
day,  possibly,  Miss  Guest  would  learn  with  grief  and  scorn 
what  her  father  had  to  thank  me  for;  and  then  later,  as 
resentment  melted  into  milder  conjecture,  she  would  read 
the  riddle  of  my  present  conduct  and  do  me  justice, — guess 
that  I  had  loved  her,  and  that,  to  punish  myself,  I  had  re- 
nounced her  forever.  This  fantastic  magnaminity  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  wholesome  reaction.  I  was  punished  enough, 
surely,  in  my  regret  and  shame;  and  I  wished  now  not  to 
suffer,  but  to  act.  Viewing  the  matter  reasonably,  she  need 
never  learn  my  secret;  if  by  some  cruel  accident  she  should, 
the  favor  I  had  earned  would  cover  that  I  had  forfeited. 
I  stayed,  then,  and  tried  to  earn  this  precious  favor;  but 
I  encountered  an  obstacle  more  serious,  I  fancied,  than 
even  her  passionate  contempt  would  have  been, — her  serene 
and  benevolent  indifference.  Looking  back  at  these  mo- 
mentous days,  I  get  an  impression  of  a  period  of  vague 
sentimental  ferment  and  trouble,  rather  than  of  definite 
utterance  and  action;  though  I  believe  that  by  a  singular 
law  governing  human  conduct  in  certain  cases,  the  very 
modesty  and  humility  of  my  passion  expressed  itself  in  a 
sort  of  florid  and  hyperbolical  gallantry;  so  tint,  in  so  far 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  '191 

as  my  claims  were  inadmissible,  they  might  pass,  partly  as 
a  kind  of  compensatory  homage,  and  partly  as  a  jest.  Miss 
Guest  refused  to  pay  me  the  compliment  of  even  being  dis- 
composed, and  pretended  to  accept  my  addresses  as  an 
elaborate  device  for  her  amusement.  There  was  a  per- 
petual assurance  in  her  tone  of  her  not  regarding  me  as  a 
serious,  much  less  as  a  dangerous,  man.  She  could  not  have 
contrived  a  more  effective  irritant  to  my  resolution;  and  I 
confess  there  were  certain  impatient  moods  when  I  took  a 
brutal  glee  in  the  thought  that  it  was  not  so  very  long 
since,  on  a  notable  occasion,  my  presence  had  told.  In  so 
far  as  I  was  serious,  Miss  Guest  frankly  offered  to  accept 
me  as  a  friend,  and  laughingly  intimated,  indeed,  that  with 
a  little  matronly  tuition  of  her  dispensing,  I  might  put  my- 
self into  condition  to  please  some  simple  maiden  in  her 
flower.  I  was  an  excellent,  honest  fellow;  but  I  was  exces- 
sively young  and — as  she  really  wished  to  befriend  me,  she 
would  risk  the  admonition — I  was  decidedly  frivolous.  I 
lacked  " character."  I  was  fairly  clever,  but  I  was  more 
clever  than  wise.  I  liked  overmuch  to  listen  to  my  own 
tongue.  I  had  done  nothing;  I  was  idle;  I  had,  by  my  own 
confession,  never  made  an  effort;  I  was  too  rich  and  too 
indolent;  in  my  very  good-nature  there  was  nothing  moral, 
no  hint  of  principle;  in  short,  I  was — boyish.  I  must 
forgive  a  woman  upon  whom  life  had  forced  the  fatal  habit 
of  discrimination.  I  suffered  this  genial  .scepticism  to 
expend  itself  freely,  for  her  candor  was  an  enchantment. 
It  was  all  true  enough.  I  had  been  indolent  and  unambiti- 
ous; I  had  made  no  effort;  I  had  lived  in  vulgar  ignorance 
and  ease;  I  had  in  a  certain  frivolous  fashion  tried  life  at 
first  hand,  but  my  shallow  gains  had  been  in  proportion  to 
my  small  hazards.  But  I  was  neither  so  young  nor  so  idle 
as  she  chose  to  fancy,  and  I  could  at  any  rate  prove  I  was 
constant.  Like  a  legendary  suitor  of  old,  I  might  even  slay 
my  dragon.  A  monstrous  accident  stood  between  us,  and 
to  dissipate  its  evil  influence  would  be  a  fairly  heroic  feat, 
Mr.  Guest's  absence  was  prolonged  from  day  to  day,  and 
Laura's  tone  of  allusion  to  her  father  tended  indeed  to 
make  a  sort  of  invincible  chimera  of  her  possible  discovery 


192  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

of  the  truth.  This  fond  filial  reference  only  brought  out 
the  more  brightly  her  unlikeness  to  him.  I  could  as  little 
fancy  her  doing  an  act  she  would  need  to  conceal  as  I 
could  fancy  her  arresting  exposure  by  a  concession  to  dis- 
honor. If  I  was  a  friend,  I  insisted  on  being  a  familiar 
one;  and  while  Mrs.  Beck  and  her  cousin  floated  away  on 
perilous  waters,  we  dabbled  in  the  placid  shallows  of  dis- 
interested sentiment.  For  myself,  I  sent  many  a  longing 
glance  toward  the  open  sea,  but  Laura  remained  firm  in 
her  preference  for  the  shore.  I  encouraged  her  to  speak  of 
her  father,  for  I  wished  to  hear  all  the  good  that  could  be 
told  of  him.  It  sometimes  seemed  to  me  that  she  talked  of 
him  with  a  kind  of  vehement  tenderness  designed  to  ob- 
scure, as  it  were,  her  inner  vision.  Better — had  she  said 
to  herself? — that  she  should  talk  fond  nonsense  about  him 
than  that  she  should  harbor  untender  suspicions.  I  could 
easily  believe  that  the  poor  man  was  a  most  lovable  fellow, 
and  could  imagine  how,  as  Laura  judged  him  in  spite  of 
herself,  the  sweet  allowances  of  a  mother  had  grown  up 
within  the  daughter.  One  afternoon  Mrs.  Beck  brought 
forth  her  photograph-book,  to  show  to  her  cousin.  Sud- 
denly, as  he  was  turning  it  over,  she  stayed  his  hand  and 
snatched  one  of  the  pictures  from  its  place.  He  tried  to 
recover  it  and  a  little  tussle  followed,  in  the  course  of 
which  she  escaped,  ran  to  Miss  Guest,  and  thrust  the  photo- 
graph into  her  hand.  "You  keep  it,"  she  cried;  "he's  not 
to  see  it."  There  was  a  great  crying  out  from  Crawford 
about  Mrs.  Beck's  inconstancy  and  his  right  to  see  the  pic- 
ture, which  was  cut  short  by  Laura's  saying  with  some 
gravity  that  it  was  too  childish  a  romp  for  a  man  of  forty 
and  a  woman  of — thirty!  Mrs.  Beck  allowed  us  no  time 
to  relish  the  irony  of  this  attributive  figure;  she  caused 
herself  to  be  pursued  to  the  other  end  of  the  garden,  where 
the  amorous  frolic  was  resumed  over  the  following  pages 
of  the  album.  "Who  is  it?"  I  asked.  Miss  Guest,  after  a 
pause,  handed  me  the  card. 

"Your  father!"  I  cried  precipitately. 

"Ah,  you've  seen  him?"  she  asked. 

"I  know  him  by  his  likeness  to  you." 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  193 

"You  prevent  my  asking  you,  as  I  meant,  if  he  doesn't 
look  like  a  dear  good  man.  I  do  wish  he'd  drop  his  stupid 
business  and  come  back." 

I  took  occasion  hereupon  to  ascertain  whether  she  sus- 
pected his  embarrassments.  She  confessed  to  a  painful  im- 
pression that  something  was  wrong.  He  had  been  out  of 
spirits  for  many  days  before  his  return  to  town;  nothing 
indeed  but  mental  distress  could  have  affected  -his  health, 
for  he  had  a  perfect  constitution.  "If  it  comes  to  that," 
she  went  on,  after  a  long  silence,  and  looking  at  me  with  an 
almost  intimate  confidence,  "I  wish  he  would  give  up  busi- 
ness altogether.  All  the  business  in  the  world,  for  a  man 
of  his  open,  joyous  temper,  doesn't  pay  for  an  hour's  de- 
pression. I  can't  bear  to  sit  by  and  see  him  embittered  and 
spoiled  by  this  muddle  of  stocks  and  shares.  Nature  made 
him  a  happy  man;  I  insist  on  keeping  him  so.  We  are 
quite  rich  enough,  and  we  need  nothing  more.  He  tries  to 
persuade  me  that  I  have  expensive  tastes,  but  I've  never 
spent  money  but  to  please  him.  I  have  a  lovely  little 
dream  which  I  mean  to  lay  before  him  when  he  comes  back; 
it's  very  cheap,  like  all  dreams,  and  more  practicable  than 
most.  He's  to  give  up  business  and  take  me  abroad.  We're 
to  settle  down  quietly  somewhere  in  Germany,  in  Italy,  I 
don't  care  where,  and  I'm  to  study  music  seriously.  I'm 
never  to  marry;  but  as  he  grows  to  be  an  old  man,  he's  to 
sit  by  a  window,  with  his  cigar,  looking  out  on  the  Arno  or 
the  Rhine,  while  I  play  Beethoven  and  Rossini." 

"It's  a  very  pretty  programme,"  I  answered,  "though  I 
can't  subscribe  to  certain  details.  But  do  you  know,"  I 
added,  touched  by  a  forcible  appeal  to  sympathy  in  her  tone, 
"although  you  refuse  to  believe  me  anything  better  than 
an  ingenuous  fool,  this  liberal  concession  to  my  interest  in 
your  situation  is  almost  a  proof  of  respect." 

She  blushed  a  little,  to  my  great  satisfaction.  "I  surely 
respect  you,"  she  said,  "if  you  come  to  that!  Otherwise 
we  should  hardly  be  sitting  here  so  simply.  Arid  I  think, 
too,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  speak  to  you  of  my  father  with 
peculiar  freedom,  because — because,  somehow,  you  remind 
me  of  him."  She  looked  at  me  as  she  spoke  with  such  pene- 


194  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

trating  candor  that  it  was  my  turn  to  blush.  "You  are 
genial,  and  gentle,  and  essentially  honest,  like  him;  and 
like  him,"  she  added  with  a  half-smile,  "you're  addicted 
to  saying  a  little  more  than  it  would  be  fair  to  expect  you 
to  stand  to.  You  ought  to  be  very  good  friends.  You'll 
find  he  has  your  own  jeunesse  de  cosur" 

I  murmured  what  I  might  about  the  happiness  of  making 
his  acquaintance;  and  then,  to  give  the  conversation  a  turn, 
and  really  to  test  the  force  of  this  sympathetic  movement 
of  hers,  I  boldly  mentioned  my  fancy  that  he  was  an  ad- 
mirer of  Mrs.  Beck.  She  gave  me  a  silent  glance,  almost  of 
gratitude,  as  if  she  needed  to  unburden  her  heart.  But  she 
did  so  in  few  words.  "He  does  admire  her,"  she  said. 
"It's  my  duty,  it's  my  pleasure,  to  respect  his  illusions. 
But  I  confess  to  you  that  I  hope  this  one  will  fade."  She 
rose  from  her  seat  and  we  joined  our  companions;  but  I 
fancied,  for  a  week  afterwards,  that  she  treated  me  with  a 
certain  gracious  implication  of  deference.  Had  I  ceased  to 
seem  boyish?  I  struck  a  truce  with  urgency  and  almost  rel- 
ished the  idea  of  being  patient. 

A  day  or  two  later,  Mr.  Guest's  "illusions"  were  put 
before  me  in  a  pathetic  light.  It  was  a  Sunday;  the  ladies 
were  at  church,  and  Crawford  and  I  sat  smoking  on  the 
piazza.  "I  don't  know  how  things  are  going  with  you," 
he  said;  "you're  either  perfectly  successful  or  desperately 
resigned.  But  unless  it's  rather  plainer  sailing  than  in  my 
case,  I  don't  envy  you.  I  don't  know  where  I  am,  anyway! 
She  will  and  she  won't.  She  may  take  back  her  word  once 
too  often,  I  can  tell  her  that!  You  see,  she  has  two  strings 
to  her  bow.  She  likes  my  money,  but  she  doesn't  like  me. 
Now,  it's  all  very  well  for  a  woman  to  relish  a  fortune, 
but  I'm  not  prepared  to  have  my  wife  despise — my  person!" 
said  Crawford  with  feeling.  "The  alternative,  you  know, 
is  Mr.  Guest,  that  girl's  father.  I  suppose  he's  handsome, 
and  a  wit,  and  a  dandy;  though  I  must  say  an  old  dandy, 
to  my  taste,  is  an  old  fool.  She  tells  me  a  dozen  times  an 
hour  that  he's  a  fascinating  man.  I  suppose  if  I  were  to 
leave  her  alone  for  a  week,  I  might  seem  a  fascinating  man. 
I  wish  to  heaven  she  wasn't  so  confoundedly  taking.  I 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  195 

can't  give  her  up;  she  amuses  me  too  much.  There  was  once 
a  little  actress  in  Galveston,  but  Clara  beats  that  girl!  If 
I  could  only  have  gone  in  for  some  simple  wholesome  girl 
who  doesn't  need  to  count  en  her  fingers  to  know  the  state 
of  her  heart!" 

That  evening  as  we  were  gathered  in  the  garden,  poor 
Crawford  approached  Laura  Guest  with  an  air  of  desperate 
gallantry,  as  if  from  a  desire  to  rest  from  the  petty  torment 
of  Mrs.  Beck's  sentimental  mutations.  Laura  liked  him, 
and  her  manner  to  him  had  always  been  admirable  in  its 
almost  sisterly  frankness  and  absence  of  provoking  arts; 
yet  I  found  myself  almost  wondering,  as  they  now  strolled 
about  the  garden  together,  whether  there  was  any  danger 
of  this  sturdy  architect  of  his  own  fortunes  putting  out  my 
pipe.  Mrs.  Beck,  however,  left  me  no  chance  for  selfish 
meditation.  Her  artless  and  pointless  prattle  never  lacked 
a  purpose;  before  you  knew  it  she  was,  in  vulgar  parlance, 
"pumping"  you,  trying  to  pick  your  pocket  of  your  poor 
little  receipt  for  prosperity.  She  took  an  intense  delight  in 
imaginatively  bettering  her  condition,  and  one  was  forced 
to  carry  bricks  for  her  castles  in  the  air. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  cousin,"  she  said,  laughing, 
as  I  followed  his  red  cigar-tip  along  the  garden  paths.  "He 
admires  Laura  altogether  too  much  to  make  love  to  her. 
There's  modesty!  Don't  you  think  it's  rather  touching 
in  a  man  with  a  million  of  dollars?  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  he  has  made  love  to  me,  that  being  no  case  for  mod- 
esty. I  suppose  you'll  say  that  my  speaking  of  it  is.  But 
what's  the  use  of  being  an  aged  widow,  if  one  can't  tell 
the  truth?" 

"There's  comfort  in  being  an  aged  widow,"  I  answered 
gallantly,  "when  one  has  two  offers  a  month." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  know  about  my  offers;  but  even 
two  swallows  don't  make  a  summer!  However,  since  you've 
mentioned  the  subject,  tell  me  frankly  what  you  think  of 
poor  Crawford.  Is  he  at  all  presentable?  You  see  I  like 
him,  I  esteem  him,  and  I'm  afraid  of  being  blinded  by  my 
feelings.  Is  he  so  dreadfully  rough?  You  see  I  like 
downright  simple  manliness  and  all  that;  but  a  little  polish 


196  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

does  no  harm,  even  on  fine  gold.  I  do  wish  you'd  take  hold 
of  my  poor  cousin  and  teach  him  a  few  of  the  amenities  of 
life.  I'm  very  fond  of  the  amenities  of  life;  it's  very  frivo- 
lous and  wicked,  I  suppose,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  have 
the  misfortune  to  be  sensitive  to  ugly  things.  Can  one 
really  accept  a  man  who  wears  a  green  cravat?  Of  course 
you  can  make  him  take  it  off;  but  you'll  be  knowing  all 
the  while  that  he  pines  for  it,  that  he  would  put  it  on  if  he 
could.  Now  that's  a  symbol  of  that  dear,  kind,  simple 
fellow, — a  heart  of  gold,  but  a  green  cravat!  I've  never 
heard  a  word  of  wisdom  about  that  matter  yet.  People 
talk  about  the  sympathy  of  souls  being  the  foundation  of 
happiness  in  marriage.  It's  pure  nonsense.  It's  not  the 
great  things,  but  the  little,  that  we  dispute  about,  and  the 
chances  are  terribly  against  the  people  who  have  a  different 
taste  in  colors." 

It  seemed  to  me  that,  thus  ardently  invoked,  I  might 
hazard  the  observation,  "Mr.  Guest  would  never  wear  a 
green  cravat." 

"What  do  you  know  about  Mr.  Guest's  cravats?" 

"I've  seen  his  photograph,  you  know." 

"Well,  you  do  him  justice.  You  should  see  him  in  the 
life.  He  looks  like  a  duke.  I  never  saw  a  duke,  but 
that's  my  notion  of  a  duke.  Distinction,  you  know;  per- 
fect manners  and  tact  and  wit.  If  I'm  right  about  it's 
being  perfection  in  small  things  that  assures  one's  happiness, 
I  might — well,  in  two  words,  I  might  be  very  happy  with 
Mr.  Guest!" 

"It's  Crawford  and  soul,  then,"  I  proposed,  smiling,  "or 
Guest  and  manner!" 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  toss  of  her* 
head  and  a  tap  of  her  fan,  "You  wretch!"  she  cried,  "you 
want  to  make  me  say  something  very  ridiculous.  I'll  not 
pretend  I'm  not  worldly.  I'm  excessively  wordly.  I 
always  make  a  point  of  letting  people  know  it.  Of  course 
I  know  very  well  my  cousin's  rich,  and  that  so  long  as  he's 
good  he's  none  the  worse  for  that.  But  in  my  quiet  little 
way  I'm  a  critic,  and  I  look  at  things  from  a  high  ground. 
I  compare  a  rich  man  who  is  simply  a  good  fellow  to  a  per- 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  197 

feet  gentleman  who  has  simply  a  nice  little  fortune.  Mr. 
Guest  has  a  nice  property,  a  very  nice  property.  I  shouldn't 
have  to  make  over  my  old  bonnets.  You  may  ask  me  if  I'm 
not  afraid  of  Laura.  But  you'll  marry  Laura  and  carry  her 
off!" 

I  found  nothing  to  reply  for  some  moments  to  this  little 
essay  in  "criticism";  and  suddenly  Mrs.  Beck,  fancying  per- 
haps that  she  was  indiscreetly  committing  herself,  put  an 
end  to  our  interview.  "I'm  really  very  kind,"  she  cried,  "to 
be  talking  so  graciously  about  a  lover  who  leaves  me  alone 
for  a  month  and  never  even  drops  me  a  line.  It's  not  such 
good  manners  after  all.  If  you're  not  jealous  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ford, I  am  of  Miss  Guest.  We'll  go  down  and  separate 
them." 

Miss  Guest's  repose  and  dignity  were  decidedly  over- 
shadowed. I  brought  her  the  next  afternoon  a  letter  from 
the  post  office,  superscribed  in  a  hand  I  knew,  and  wan- 
dered away  while  she  sat  in  the  garden  and  read  it.  When 
I  came  back  she  looked  strangely  sad.  I  sat  down  near  her 
and  drew  figures  in  the  ground  with  the  end  of  her  parasol, 
hoping  that  she  would  do  me  the  honor  to  communicate  her 
trouble.  At  last  she  rose  in  silence,  as  if  to  return  to  the 
house.  I  begged  her  to  remain.  "You're  in  distress,"  I 
said,  speaking  as  calmly  and  coldly  as  I  could,  "and  I  hoped 
it  might  occur  to  you  that  there  is  infinite  sympathy  close 
at  hand.  Instead  of  going  to  your  own  room  to  cry,  why 
not  stay  here  and  talk  of  it  with  me?" 

She  gave  me  a  brilliant,  searching  gaze;  I  met  it  steadily 
and  felt  that  I  was  turning  pale  with  the  effort  not  to  obey 
the  passionate  impulse  of  self-denunciation.  She  began 
slowly  to  walk  away  from  the  house,  and  I  felt  that  a  point 
was  gained.  "It's  your  father,  of  course,"  I  said.  It  was 
all  I  could  say.  She  silently  handed  me  his  unfolded  let- 
ter. It  ran  as  follows: — 

MY  DEAREST  DAUGHTER: — I  have  sold  the  house  and 
everything  in  it,  except  your  piano  and  books,  of  course  at 
a  painful  sacrifice.  But  I  needed  ready  money.  Forgive 


198  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

your  poor  blundering,  cruel  father.  My  old  luck  has  left 
me;  but  only  trust  me,  and  we  shall  be  happy  again." 

Her  eyes,  fortunately,  were  wandering  while  I  read;  for 
I  felt  myself  blushing  to  my  ears. 

"It's  not  the  loss  of  the  house,"  she  said  at  last;  "though 
of  course  we  were  fond  of  it.  I  grew  up  there, — my  mother 
died  there.  It's  the  trouble  it  indicates.  Poor  dear  fatherf 
Why  does  he  talk  of  'luck'?  I  detest  the  word,  ^"hy  does 
he  talk  of  forgiving  him  and  trusting  him?  There's  a 
wretched  tone  about  it  all.  If  he  would  only  come  back  and 
let  me  look  at  him!" 

"Nothing  is  more  common  in  business,"  I  answered,  "than 
a  temporary  embarrassment  demanding  ready  money.  Of 
course  it  must  be  met  at  a  sacrifice.  One  throws  a  little 
something  overboard  to  lighten  the  ship,  and  the  ship  sails 
ahead.  As  for  the  loss  of  the  house,  nothing  could  be  bet- 
ter for  going  to  Italy,  you  know.  You've  no  excuse  left 
for  staying  here.  If  your  father  will  forgive  me  the  interest 
I  take  in  his  affairs,  I  strongly  recommend  his  leaving  busi- 
ness and  its  sordid  cares.  Let  him  go  abroad  and  forget  it 
all." 

Laura  walked  along  in  silence,  and  I  led  the  way  out  of 
the  garden  into  the  road.  We  followed  it  slowly  till  we 
reached  the  little  chapel.  The  sexton  was  just  leaving  it, 
shouldering  the  broom  with  which  he  had  been  sweeping  it 
for  the  morrow's  services.  I  hailed  him  and  gained  his  per- 
mission to  go  in  and  try  the  organ,  assuring  him  that  we 
were  experts.  Laura  said  that  she  felt  in  no  mood  for 
music;  but  she  entered  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  pews.  I 
climbed  into  the  gallery  and  attacked  the  little  instrument. 
We  had  had  no  music  since  our  first  meeting,  and  I  felt 
an  irresistible  need  to  recall  the  circumstances  of  that  meet- 
ing. I  played  in  a  simple  fashion,  respectably  enough,  and 
fancied,  at  all  events,  that  by  my  harmonious  fingers  I  could 
best  express  myself.  I  played  for  an  hour,  in  silence,  choos- 
ing what  I  would,  without  comment  or  response  from  my 
companion.  The  summer  twilight  overtook  us;  when  it  was 
getting  too  dark  to  see  the  keys,  I  rejoined  Miss  Guest. 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  199 

She  rose  and  came  into  the  aisle.  "You  play  very  well," 
she  said,  simply;  "better  than  I  supposed." 

Her  praise  was  sweet;  but  sweeter  still  was  a  fancy  of 
mine  that  I  perceived  in  the  light  gloom  just  the  glim- 
mer of  a  tear.  "In  this  place,"  I  said,  "your  playing  once 
moved  me  greatly.  Try  and  remember  the  scene  dis- 
tinctly." 

"It's  easily  remembered,"  she  answered,  with  an  air  of 
surprise. 

"Believe,  then,  that  when  we  parted,  I  was  already  in 
love  with  you." 

She  turned  away  abruptly.    "Ah,  my  poor  music!" 

The  next  day,  on  my  arrival,  I  was  met  by  Mrs.  Beck, 
whose  pretty  forehead  seemed  clouded  with  annoyance. 
With  her  own  fair  hand  she  buttonholed  me.  "You  ap- 
parently," she  said,  "have  the  happiness  to  be  in  Miss 
Guest's  confidence.  What  on  earth  is  going  on  in  New 
York?  Laura  received  an  hour  ago  a  letter  from  her  father. 
I  found  her  sitting  with  it  in  her  hand  as  cheerful  as  a 
Quakeress  in  meeting.  'Something's  wrong,  my  dear/  I 
said;  'I  don't  know  what.  In  any  case,  be  assured  of  my 
sympathy. '  She  gave  me  the  most  extraordinary  stare. 
'You'll  be  interested  to  know,'  she  said,  'that  my  father 
has  lost  half  his  property.'  Interested  to  know!  I  verily 
believe  the  child  meant  an  impertinence.  What  is  Mr. 
Guest's  property  to  me?  Has  he  been  speculating?  Stupid 
man!"  she  cried,  with  vehemence. 

I  made  a  brief  answer.  I  discovered  Miss  Guest  sitting 
by  the  river,  in  pale  contemplation  of  household  disaster. 
I  asked  no  questions.  She  told  me  of  her  own  accord  that 
her  father  was  to  return  immediately,  "to  make  up  a 
month's  sleep,"  she  added,  glancing  at  his  letter.  We  spoke 
of  other  matters,  but  before  I  left  her,  I  returned  to  this 
one.  "I  wish  you  to  tell  your  father  this,"  I  said.  "That 
there  is  a  certain  gentleman  here,  who  is  idle,  indolent, 
ignorant,  frivolous,  selfish.  That  he  has  certain  funds  for 
which  he  is  without  present  use.  That  he  places  them  at 
Mr.  Guest's  absolute  disposal  in  the  hope  that  they  may 
partially  relieve  his  embarrassment."  I  looked  at  Laura  as 


200  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

I  spoke  and  watched  her  startled  blush  deepen  to  crimson. 
She  was  about  to  reply;  but  before  she  could  speak,  "Don't 
forget  to  add,"  I  went  on,  "that  he  hopes  his  personal 
faults  will  not  prejudice  Mr.  Guest's  acceptance  of  his  offer, 
for  it  is  prompted  by  the  love  he  bears  his  daughter." 

"You  must  excuse  me,"  Laura  said,  after  a  pause.  "I 
had  rather  not  tell  him  this.  He  would  not  accept  your 
offer." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"I  shouldn't  allow  him." 

"And  why  not,  pray?  Don't  you,  after  all,  like  me  well 
enough  to  suffer  me  to  do  you  so  small  a  service?" 

She  hesitated;  then  gave  me  her  hand  with  magnificent 
frankness.  "I  like  you  too  well  to  suffer  you  to  do  me 
just  that  service.  We  take  that  from  les  indifferents" 


Before  the  month  was  out,  Edgar  had  quarrelled  with  the 

healing  waters  of  L .    His  improvement  had  been  most 

illusory;  his  old  symptoms  had  returned  in  force,  and 
though  he  now  railed  bitterly  at  the  perfidious  spring  and 
roundly  denounced  the  place,  he  was  too  ill  to  be  moved 
away.  He  was  altogether  confined  to  his  room.  I  made  a 
conscience  of  offering  him  my  company  and  assistance,  but 
he  would  accept  no  nursing  of  mine.  He  would  be  tended 
by  no  one  whom  he  could  not  pay  for  his  trouble  and 
enjoy  a  legal  right  to  grumble  at.  "I  expect  a  nurse  to  be 
a  nurse,"  he  said,  "and  not  a  fine  gentleman,  waiting  on  me 
in  gloves.  It  would  be  fine  work  for  me,  lying  here,  to  have 
to  think  twice  whether  I  might  bid  you  not  to  breathe  so 
hard."  Nothing  had  passed  between  us  about  John  Guest, 
though  the  motive  for  silence  was  different  on  each  side. 
For  Edgar,  I  fancied,  our  interview  with  him  was  a  matter 
too  solemn  for  frequent  allusion;  for  me  it  was  a  detestable 
thought.  But  wishing  now  to  assure  myself  that,  as  I 
supposed,  he  had  paid  his  ugly  debt,  I  asked  Edgar,  on  the 
evening  I  had  extorted  from  Miss  Guest  those  last  recorded 
words  of  happy  omen,  whether  he  had  heard  from  our  friend 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  201 

in  New  York.  It  was  a  very  hot  night;  poor  Edgar  lay 
sweltering  under  a  sheet,  with  open  windows.  He  looked 
pitifully  ill,  and  yet  somehow  more  intensely  himself  than 
ever.  He  drew  a  letter  from  under  his  pillow.  "This 
came  to-day,"  he  said.  "Stevens  writes  me  that  Guest 
yesterday  paid  down  the  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  full. 
It's  quick  work.  I  hope  he's  not  robbed  Peter  to  pay  Paul.0 

"Mr.  Guest  has  a  conscience,"  I  said;  and  I  thought  bit- 
terly of  the  reverse  of  the  picture.  "I'm  afraid  he  has  half 
ruined  himself  to  do  it." 

"Well,  ruin  for  ruin,  I  prefer  his.  I've  no  doubt  his 
affairs  have  gone  to  the  dogs.  The  affairs  of  such  a  man 
must,  sooner  or  later!  I  believe,  by  the  way,  you've  been 
cultivating  the  young  lady.  What  does  the  papa  say  to 
that?" 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  without  heeding  his  question,  "you've 
already  enclosed  him  the — the  little  paper." 

Edgar  turned  in  his  bed.  "Of  course  I've  done  no  such 
thing!" 

"You  mean  to  keep  it?"  I  cried. 

"Of  course  I  mean  to  keep  it.  Where  else  would  be  his 
punishment?" 

There  was  something  vastly  grotesque  in  the  sight  of 
this  sickly  little  mortal  erecting  himself  among  his  pillows 
as  a  dispenser  of  justice,  an  appraiser  of  the  wages  of  sin; 
but  I  confess  that  his  attitude  struck  me  as  more  cruel  even 
than  ludicrous.  I  was  disappointed.  I  had  certainly  not 
expected  Edgar  to  be  generous,  but  I  had  expected  him  to 
be  just,  and  in  the  heat  of  his  present  irritation  he  wast 
neither.  He  was  angry  with  Guest  for  his  excessive  promp- 
titude, which  had  given  a  sinister  twist  to  his  own  conduct. 
"Upon  my  word,"  I  cried,  "you're  a  veritable  Shylock!" 

"And  you're  a  veritable  fool!  Is  it  set  down  in  the 
bond  that  I'm  to  give  it  up  to  him?  The  thing's  mine,  to 
have  and  to  hold  forever.  The  scoundrel  would  be  easily 
let  off  indeed!  This  bit  of  paper  in  my  hands  is  to  keep 
him  in  order  and  prevent  his  being  too  happy.  The  thought 
will  be  wholesome  company, — a  memento  mori  to  his 
vanity." 


202  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"He's  to  go  through  life,  then,  with  possible  exposure 
staring  him  in  the  face?" 

Edgar's  great  protuberant  eyes  expanded  without  blink- 
ing. "He  has  committed  his  fate  to  Providence." 

I  was  revolted.  "You  may  have  the  providential  quali- 
ties, but  you  have  not  the  gentlemanly  ones,  I  formally  pro- 
test. But,  after  a  decent  delay,  he'll  of  course  demand  the 
document." 

"Demand  it?    He  shall  have  it  then,  with  a  vengeance!" 

"Well,  I  wash  my  hands  of  further  complicity!  I  shall 
inform  Mr.  Guest  that  I  count  for  nothing  in  this  base 
negation  of  his  right." 

Edgar  paused  a  moment  to  stare  at  me  in  my  unprece- 
dented wrath.  Then  making  me  a  little  ironical  gesture  of 
congratulation,  "Inform  him  of  what  you  please.  I  hope 
you'll  have  a  pleasant  talk  over  it!  You  made  rather  a 
bad  beginning,  but  who  knows,  if  you  put  your  heads  to- 
gether to  abuse  me,  you  may  end  as  bosom  friends!  I've 
watched  you,  sir!"  he  suddenly  added,  propping  himself 
forward  among  his  pillows;  "you're  in  love!"  I  may  wrong 
the  poor  fellow,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  these  words  he 
discharged  the  bitterness  of  a  lifetime.  He  too  would  have 
hoped  to  please,  and  he  had  lived  in  acrid  assent  to  the  in- 
stinct which  told  him  such  hope  was  vain.  In  one  way  or 
another  a  man  pays  his  tax  to  manhood.  "Yes,  sir,  you're 
grossly  in  love!  What  do  I  know  about  love,  you  ask? 
I  know  a  drivelling  lover  when  I  see  him.  You've  made  a 
clever  choice.  Do  you  expect  John  Guest  to  give  tlje  girl 
away?  He's  a  good-natured  man,  I  know;  but  really,  con- 
sidering your  high  standard  of  gentlemanly  conduct,  you 
ask  a  good  deal." 

Edgar  had  been  guilty  on  this  occasion  of  a  kind  of  reck- 
less moral  self-exposure,  which  seemed  to  betray  a  sense 
that  he  should  never  need  his  reputation  again.  I  felt  as 
if  I  were  standing  by  something  very  like  a  death-bed,  and 
forbearingly,  without  rejoinder,  I  withdrew.  He  had  simply 
expressed  more  brutally,  however,  my  own  oppressive  be- 
lief that  the  father's  aversion  stood  darkly  massed  in  the 
rear  of  the  daughter's  indifference.  I  had,  indeed,  for  the 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  203 

present,  the  consolation  of  believing  that  with  Laura  the 
day  of  pure  indifference  was  over;  and  I  tried  hard  to  flatter 
myself  that  my  position  was  tenable  in  spite  of  Mr.  Guest. 
The  next  day  as  I  was  wandering  on  the  hotel  piazza,  com- 
muning thus  sadly  with  my  hopes,  I  met  Crawford,  who, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  hat  on  the  bridge  of 
his  nose,  seemed  equally  a  sullen  probationer  of  fate. 

"I'm  going  down  to  join  our  friends,"  I  said;  "I  expected 
to  find  you  with  them." 

He  gave  a  gloomy  grin.  "My  nose  is  out  of  joint,"  he 
said;  "Mr.  Guest  has  come  back."  I  turned  pale,  but  he 
was  too  much  engaged  with  his  own  trouble  to  observe  it. 
"What  do  you  suppose  my  cousin  is  up  to?  She  had  agreed 
to  drive  with  me  and  I  had  determined  to  come  home,  once 
for  all,  engaged  or  rejected.  As  soon  as  she  heard  of 
Guest's  arrival,  she  threw  me  overboard  and  tripped  off  to 
her  room,  to  touch  up  her  curls.  Go  down  there  now  and 
you'll  find  her  shaking  them  at  Mr.  Guest.  By  the  Lord, 
sir,  she  can  whistle  for  me  now!  If  there  was  a  decently 
good-looking  woman  in  this  house,  I'd  march  straight  up  to 
her  and  offer  myself.  You're  a  happy  man,  my  boy,  not 
to  have  a  d — d  fool  to  interfere  with  you,  and  not  to  be  in 
love  with  a  d — d  fool  either." 

I  had  no  present  leisure  to  smooth  the  turbid  waters  of 
poor  Crawford's  passion;  but  I  remembered  a  clever  re- 
mark in  a  French  book,  to  the  effect  that  even  the  best  men 
— and  Crawford  was  one  of  the  best — are  subject  to  a  mo- 
mentary need  not  to  respect  what  they  love.  I  repaired 
alone  to  the  house  by  the  river,  and  found  Laura  in  the 
little  parlor  which  she  shared  with  Mrs.  Beck.  The  room 
was  flooded  with  the  glow  of  a  crimson  sunset,  and  she  was 
looking  out  of  the  long  window  at  two  persons  in  the  gar- 
den. In  my  great  desire  to  obtain  some  firm  assurance 
from  her  before  her  father's  interference  should  become 
a  certainty,  I  lost  no  time.  "I've  been  able  to  think  of 
nothing,"  I  said,  "but  your  reply  to  that  poor  offer  of 
mine.  IVe  been  flattering  myself  that  it  really  means 
something, — means,  possibly,  that  if  I  were  to  speak — 
here — now — all  that  I  long  to  speak,  you  would  listen  to 


204  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

me  more  kindly.  Laura,"  I  cried,  passionately,  "I  repent 
of  all  my  follies  and  I  love  you!" 

She  looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot  with  a  gaze  almost 
strange  in  its  intensity.  It  betrayed  trouble,  but,  I  fancied, 
a  grateful  trouble.  Then,  with  a  smile,  "My  father  has 
come,"  she  said.  The  words  set  my  heart  a  beating,  and 
I  had  a  horrible  fancy  that  they  were  maliciously  uttered. 
But  as  she  went  on  I  was  reassured.  "I  want  him  to  see 
you,  though  he  knows  nothing  of  your  offer." 

Somehow,  by  her  tone,  my  mind  was  suddenly  illumined 
with  a  delicious  apprehension  of  her  motive.  She  had  heard 
the  early  murmur  of  that  sentiment  whose  tender  essence 
resents  compulsion.  "Let  me  feel  then,"  I  said,  "that  I 
am  not  to  stand  or  fall  by  his  choice." 

"He's  sure  to  like  you,"  she  answered;  "don't  you  remem- 
ber my  telling  you  so?  He  judges  better  of  men  than  of 
women,"  she  added  sadly,  turning  away  from  the  window. 

Mr.  Guest  had  been  advancing  toward  the  house,  side  by 
side  with  Mrs.  Beck.  Before  they  reached  it  the  latter 
was  met  by  two  ladies  who  had  been  ushered  into  the  gar- 
den from  the  front  gate,  and  with  whom,  with  an  air  of 
smothered  petulance,  perceptible  even  at  a  distance,  she  re- 
traced her  steps  toward  the  summer-house.  Her  compan- 
ion entered  our  little  parlor  alone  from  the  piazza*  He 
stepped  jauntily  and  looked  surprisingly  little  altered  by 
his  month's  ordeal.  Mrs.  Beck  might  still  have  taken  him 
for  a  duke,  or,  at  least,  for  an  earl.  His  daughter  im- 
mediately introduced  me.  "Happy  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance, sir,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  which  I  was  almost 
shocked  to  find  how  well  I  knew.  He  offered  his  hand.  I 
met  it  with  my  own,  and  the  next  moment  we  were  fairly 
face  to  face.  I  was  prepared  for  anything.  Recognition 
faltered  for  a  mere  instant  in  his  eyes;  then  I  felt  it  sud- 
denly leap  forth  in  the  tremendous  wrench  of  his  hand,  "Ah, 
you — you — YOU  I " 

"Why,  you  know  him!"  exclaimed  Laura. 

Guest  continued  to  wring  my  hand,  and  I  felt  to  my  cost 
that  he  was  shocked.  He  panted  a  moment  for  breath, 
and  then  burst  into  a  monstrous  laugh.  I  looked  askance 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  205 

at  Laura;  her  eyes  were  filled  with  wonder.  I  felt  that  for 
the  moment  anger  had  made  her  father  reckless,  and  any- 
thing was  better  than  that  between  us  the  edge  of  our  secret 
should  peep  out.  "We  have  been  introduced,"  I  said,  try- 
ing to  smile.  Guest  dropped  my  hand  as  if  it  burned  him, 
and  walked  the  length  of  the  room. 

"You  should  have  told  me!"  Laura  added,  in  a  tone  of 
almost  familiar  reproach. 

"Miss  Guest,"  I  answered,  hardly  knowing  what  I  said, 
"the  world  is  so  wide " 

"Upon  my  soul,  I  think  it's  damnably  narrow!"  cried 
Guest,  who  had  turned  very  pale. 

I  determined  then  that  he  should  know  the  worst.  "I'm 
here  with  a  purpose,  Mr.  Guest,"  I  said;  "I  love  your 
daughter." 

He  stopped  short,  fairly  glaring  at  me.  Laura  stepped 
toward  him  and  laid  her  two  hands  on  his  arm.  "Something 
is  wrong,"  she  said,  "very  wrong!  It's  your  horrible 
money-matters!  Weren't  you  really  then  so  generous?" 
and  she  turned  to  me. 

Guest  laid  his  other  hand  on  hers  as  they  rested  on  his 
arm  and  patted  them  gently.  "My  daughter,"  he  said 
solemnly,  "do  your  poor  father  a  favor.  Dismiss  him  for- 
ever. Turn  him  out  of  the  house,"  he  added,  fiercely. 

"You  wrong  your  daughter,"  I  cried,  "by  asking  her  to 
act  so  blindly  and  cruelly." 

"My  child,"  Guest  went  on,  "I  expect  you  to  obey!" 

There  was  a  silence.  At  last  Laura  turned  to  me,  ex- 
cessively pale.  "Will  you  do  me  the  very  great  favor," 
she  said,  with  a  trembling  voice,  "to  leave  us?" 

I  reflected  a  moment.  "I  appreciate  your  generosity; 
but  in  the  interest  of  your  own  happiness,  I  beg  you  not 
to  listen  to  your  father  until  I  have  had  a  word  with  him 
alone." 

She  hesitated  and  looked,  as  if  for  assent,  at  her  father. 
"Great  heavens,  girl!"  he  cried,  "you  don't  mean  you 
love  him!"  She  blushed  to  her  hair  and  rapidly  left  the 
room. 

Guest  took  up  his  hat  and  removed  a  speck  of  dust  from 


206  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

the  ribbon  by  a  fillip  of  his  finger-nail.  "Young  man,"  he 
said,  "you  waste  words!" 

"Not,  I  hope,  when,  with  my  hand  on  my  heart,  I  beg 
your  pardon." 

"Now  that  you  have  something  to  gain.  If  you  respect 
me,  you  should  have  protested  before.  If  you  don't  you've 
nothing  to  do  with  me  or  mine." 

"I  allow  for  your  natural  resentment,  but  you  might 
keep  it  within  bounds.  I  religiously  forget,  ignore,  efface 
the  past.  Meet  me  half-way!  When  we  met  a  month  ago, 
I  already  loved  your  daughter.  If  I  had  dreamed  of  your 
being  ever  so  remotely  connected  with  her,  I  would  have 
arrested  that  detestable  scene  even  by  force,  brother  of 
mine  though  your  adversary  was!" 

Guest  put  on  his  hat  with  a  gesture  of  implacable  con- 
tempt. "That's  all  very  well!  You  don't  know  me,  sir, 
or  you'd  not  waste  your  breath  on  ijs!  The  thing's  done. 
Such  as  I  stand  here,  I've  been  dishonored!"  And  two  hot 
tears  sprang  into  his  eyes.  "Such  as  I  stand  here,  I  carry 
in  my  poor,  sore  heart  the  vision  of  your  great,  brutal,  star- 
ing, cruel  presence.  And  now  you  ask  me  to  accept  that 
presence  as  perpetual!  Upon  my  soul,  I'm  a  precious  fool 
to  talk  about  it." 

I  made  an  immense  effort  to  remain  calm  and  courteous. 
"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  to  secure  your  good-will?  I'll 
make  any  sacrifice." 

"Nothing  but  to  leave  me  at  once  and  forever.  Fancy  my 
living  with  you  for  an  hour!  Fancy,  whenever  I  met  your 
eyes,  my  seeing  in  them  the  reflection  of — of  that  piece  of 
business!  And  your  walking  about  looking  wise  and 
chuckling!  My  precious  young  man,"  he  went  on  with  a 
scorching  smile,  "if  you  knew  how  I  hated  you,  you'd  give 
me  a  wide  berth." 

I  was  silent  for  some  moments,  teaching  myself  the  great 
patience  which  I  foresaw  I  should  need.  "This  is  after  all 
but  the  question  of  our  personal  relations,  which  we  might 
fairly  leave  to  time.  Not  only  am  I  willing  to  pledge  my- 
self to  the  most  explicit  respect " 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  207 

"Explicit  respect!"  he  broke  out.  "I  should  relish  that 
vastly!  Heaven  deliver  me  from  your  explicit  respect!" 

"I  can  quite  believe,"  I  quietly  continued,  "that  I  should 
get  to  like  you.  Your  daughter  has  done  me  the  honor 
to  say  that  she  believed  you  would  like  me." 

"Perfect!     You've  talked  it  all  over  with  her?" 

"At  any  rate,"  I  declared  roundly,  "I  love  her,  and  I 
have  reason  to  hope  that  I  may  render  myself  acceptable  to 
her.  I  can  only  add,  Mr.  Guest,  that  much  as  I  should 
value  your  approval  of  my  suit,  if  you  withhold  it  I  shall 
try  my  fortune  without  it!" 

"Gently,  impetuous  youth!"  And  Guest  laid  his  hand 
on  my  arm  and  lowered  his  voice.  "Do  you  dream  that 
if  my  daughter  ever  so  faintly  suspected  the  truth,  she 
would  even  look  at  you  again?" 

"The  truth?  Heaven  forbid  she  should  dream  of  it! 
I  wonder  that  in  your  position  you  should  allude  to  it  so 
freely." 

"I  was  prudent  once;  I  shall  treat  myself  to  a  little  free- 
dom now.  Give  it  up,  I  advise  you.  She  may  have  thought 
you  a  pretty  young  fellow;  I  took  you  for  one  myself  at 
first;  but  she'll  keep  her  affection  for  a  man  with  the  bowels 
of  compassion.  She'll  never  love  a  coward,  sir.  Upon  my 
soul,  I'd  sooner  she  married  your  beautiful  brother.  He, 
at  least,  had  a  grievance.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  my  own 
child.  She  and  I  have  an  older  love  than  yours;  and  if 
she  were  to  learn  that  I've  been  weak — Heaven  help  me! — 
she  would  only  love  me  the  more.  She  would  feel  only 
that  I've  been  outraged." 

I  confess  that  privately  I  flinched,  but  I  stood  to  it 
bravely.  "Miss  Guest,  doubtless,  is  as  perfect  a  daughter 
as  she  would  be  a  wife.  But  allow  me  to  say  that  a 
woman's  heart  is  not  so  simple  a  mechanism.  Your  daugh- 
ter is  a  person  of  a  very  fine  sense  of  honor,  and  I  can  im- 
agine nothing  that  would  give  her  greater  pain  than  to  be 
reduced  to  an  attitude  of  mere  compassion  for  her  father. 
She  likes  to  believe  that  men  are  strong.  The  sense  of  re- 
spect is  necessary  to  her  happiness.  We  both  wish  to  as- 


208  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

sure  that  happiness.  Let  us  join  hands  to  preserve  her 
illusions." 

I  saw  in  his  eye  no  concession  except  to  angry  perplexity. 
"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  cried,  "and  I  don't  want 
to  know.  If  you  wish  to  intimate  that  my  daughter  is  so 
very  superior  a  person  that  she'll  despise  me,  you're  mis- 
taken! She's  beyond  any  compliment  you  can  pay  her. 
You  can't  frighten  me  now;  I  don't  care  for  things."  He 
walked  away  a  moment  and  then  turned  about  with  flushed 
face  and  trembling  lip.  "I'm  broken,  I'm  ruined!  I  don't 
want  my  daughter's  respect,  nor  any  other  woman's.  It's 
a  burden,  a  mockery,  a  snare!  What's  a  woman  worth  who 
can  be  kind  only  while  she  believes?  Ah,  ah!"  and  he  be- 
gan to  rub  his  hands  with  a  sudden  air  of  helpless  senility, 
"I  should  never  be  so  kissed  and  coddled  and  nursed.  I 
can  tell  her  what  I  please;  I  sha'n't  mind  what  I  say  now. 
I've  ceased  to  care, — all  in  a  month!  Reputation  is  a  farce; 
a  pair  of  tight  boots,  worn  for  vanity.  I  used  to  have  a 
good  foot,  but  I  shall  end  my  days  in  my  slippers.  I  don't 
care  for  anything!" 

This  mood  was  piteous,  but  it  was  also  formidable,  for 
I  was  scantily  disposed  to  face  the  imputation  of  having 
reduced  an  amiable  gentleman,  in  however  strictly  just  a 
cause,  to  this  state  of  plaintive  cynicism.  I  could  only 
hope  that  time  would  repair  both  his  vanity  and  his  charity, 
seriously  damaged  as  they  were.  "Well,"  I  said,  taking  my 
hat,  "a  man  in  love,  you  know,  is  obstinate.  Confess,  your- 
self, that  you'd  not  think  the  better  of  me  for  accepting 
dismissal  philosophically.  A  single  word  of  caution,  keep 
cool;  don't  lose  your  head;  don't  speak  recklessly  to  Laura. 
I  protest  that,  for  myself,  I'd  rather  my  mistress  shouldn't 
doubt  of  her  father." 

Guest  had  seated  himself  on  the  sofa  with  his  hat  on, 
and  remained  staring  absently  at  the  carpet,  as  if  he  were 
deaf  to  my  words.  As  I  turned  away,  Mrs.  Beck  crossed 
the  piazza  and  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  long  window. 
Her  shadow  fell  at  Mr.  Guest's  feet;  she  sent  a  searching 
glance  from  his  face  to  mine.  He  started,  stared,  rose, 
stiffened  himself  up,  and  removed  his  hat  Suddenly  he 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  209 

colored  to  his  temples,  and  after  a  second's  delay  there  is- 
used  from  behind  this  ruby  curtain  a  wondrous  imitation 
of  a  smile.  I  turned  away,  reassured.  "My  case  is  not 
hopeless,"  I  said  to  myself.  "You  do  care  for  something, 
yet."  Even  had  I  deemed  it  hopeless,  I  might  have  made 
my  farewell.  Laura  met  me  near  the  gate,  and  I  remember 
thinking  that  trouble  was  vastly  becoming  to  her. 

"Is  your  quarrel  too  bad  to  speak  of?"  she  asked. 

"Allow  me  to  make  an  urgent  request.  Your  father  for- 
bids me  to  think  of  you,  and  you,  of  course,  to  think  of  me. 
You  see,"  I  said,  mustering  a  smile,  "we're  in  a  delightfully 
romantic  position,  persecuted  by  a  stern  parent.  He  will 
say  hard  things  of  me;  I  say  nothing  about  your  believing 
them,  I  leave  that  to  your  own  discretion.  But  don't  con- 
tradict them.  Let  him  call  me  cruel,  pusillanimous,  false, 
whatever  he  will.  Ask  no  questions;  they  will  bring  you 
no  comfort.  Be  patient,  be  a  good  daughter,  and — wait!" 

Her  brow  contracted  painfully  over  her  intensely  lucid 
eyes,  and  she  shook  her  head  impatiently.  "Let  me  under- 
stand. Have  you  really  done  wrong?" 

I  felt  that  it  was  but  a  slender  sacrifice  to  generosity  to 
say  Yes,  and  to  add  that  I  had  repented.  I  even  felt  grate- 
fully that  whatever  it  might  be  to  have  a  crime  to  confess 
to,  it  was  not  "boyish." 

For  a  moment,  I  think,  Laura  was  on  the  point  of  ask^ 
ing  me  a  supreme  question  about  her  father,  but  she  sup- 
pressed it  and  abruptly  left  me. 

My  step-brother's  feeble  remnant  of  health  was  now  so 
cruelly  reduced  that  the  end  of  his  troubles  seemed  near. 
He  was  in  constant  pain,  and  was  kept  alive  only  by  stupe- 
fying drugs.  As  his  last  hour  might  strike  at  any  mo- 
ment, I  was  careful  to  remain  within  call,  and  for  several 
days  saw  nothing  of  father  or  daughter.  I  learned  from 
Crawford  that  they  had  determined  to  prolong  their  stay 
into  the  autumn,  for  Mr.  Guest's  "health."  "I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter  with  his  health,"  Crawford  grumbled. 
"For  a  sick  man  he  seems  uncommonly  hearty,  able  to  sit 
out  of  doors  till  midnight  with  Mrs.  B.,  and  always  as  spick 
and  span  as  a  bridegroom.  I'm  the  invalid  of  the  lot," 


210  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

lie  declared;  "the  climate  don't  agree  with  me."  Mrs. 
Beck,  it  appeared,  was  too  fickle  for  patience;  he  would  be 
made  a  fool  of  no  more.  If  she  wanted  him,  she  must  come 
and  fetch  him;  and  if  she  valued  her  chance,  she  must  do 
it  without  delay.  He  departed  for  New  York  to  try  the 
virtue  of  missing  and  being  missed. 

On  the  evening  he  left  us,  the  doctor  told  me  that  Edgar 
could  not  outlast  the  night.  At  midnight,  I  relieved  the 
watcher  and  took  my  place  by  his  bed.  Edgar's  soundless 
and  motionless  sleep  was  horribly  like  death.  Sitting 
watchful  by  his  pillow,  I  passed  an  oppressively  solemn 
night.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  part  of  myself  was  dying, 
and  that  I  was  sitting  in  cold  survival  of  youthful  innocence 
and  of  the  lavish  self-surrender  of  youth.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain comfort  in  an  ancient  grievance,  and  as  I  thought  of 
having  heard  for  the  last  time  the  strenuous  quaver  of 
Edgar's  voice,  I  could  have  wept  as  for  the  effacement  of 
some  revered  horizon-line  of  life.  I  heard  his  voice  again, 
however;  he  was  not  even  to  die  without  approving  the  mat- 
ter. With  the  first  flash  of  dawn  and  the  earliest  broken 
bird-note,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  began  to  murmur  dis- 
connectedly. At  length  he  recognized  me,  and,  with  me,  his 
situation.  "Don't  go  on  tiptoe,  and  hold  your  breath,  and 
pull  a  long  face,"  he  said;  "speak  up  like  a  man.  I'm  doing 
the  biggest  job  I  ever  did  yet,  you'll  not  interrupt  me;  I'm 
dying.  One — two,  three — four;  I  can  almost  count  the 
ebbing  waves.  And  to  think  that  all  these  years  they've 
been  breaking  on  the  strand  of  the  universe!  It's  only  when 
the  world's  din  is  shut  out,  at  the  last,  that  we  hear  them. 
I'll  not  pretend  to  say  I'm  not  sorry;  I've  been  a  man  of 
this  world.  It's  a  great  one;  there's  a  vast  deal  to  do  in 
it,  for  a  man  of  sense.  I've  not  been  a  fool,  either.  Write 
that  for  my  epitaph,  He  was  no  fool! — except  when  he  went 
to  L.  I'm  not  satisfied  yet.  I  might  have  got  better,  and 
richer.  I  wanted  to  try  galvanism,  and  to  transfer  that 
'Pennsylvania  stock.  Well,  I'm  to  be  transferred  myself. 
If  dying's  the  end  of  it  all,  it's  as  well  to  die  worse  as  to 
die  better.  At  any  rate,  while  time  was  mine,  I  didn't 
waste  it.  I  went  over  my  will,  pen  in  hand,  for  the  last 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  2H 

time,  only  a  week  ago,  crossed  the  J's  and  dotted  the  i's. 
I've  left  you — nothing.  You  need  nothing  for  comfort,  and 
of  course  you  expect  nothing  for  sentiment.  I've  left 
twenty  thousand  dollars  to  found  an  infirmary  for  twenty 
indigent  persons  suffering  from  tumor  in  the  stomach. 
There's  sentiment!  There  will  be  no  trouble  about  it,  for 
my  affairs  are  in  perfect  shape.  Twenty  snug  Iktle  beds 
in  my  own  little  house  in  Philadelphia.  They  can  get  five 
in  the  dining-room."  He  was  silent  awhile,  as  if  with  a 
kind  of  ecstatic  vision  of  the  five  little  beds  in  a  row.  "I 
don't  know  that  there  is  anything  else,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"except  a  few  old  papers  to  be  burned.  I  hate  leaving  rub- 
bish behind  me;  it's  enough  to  leave  one's  mouldering  car- 
cass!" 

At  his  direction  I  brought  a  large  tin  box  from  a  closet 
and  placed  it  on  a  chair  by  his  bedside,  where  I  drew 
from  it  a  dozen  useless  papers  and  burned  them  one  by  one 
in  the  candle.  At  last,  when  but  three  or  four  were  left, 
I  laid  my  hand  on  a  small  sealed  document  labelled  Guest's 
Confession.  My  hand  trembled  as  I  held  it  up  to  him,  and 
as  he  recognized  it  a  faint  flush  overspread  his  cadaverous 
pallor.  He  frowned,  as  if  painfully  confused.  "How  did  it 
come  there?  I  sent  it  back,  I  sent  it  back,"  he  said.  Then 
suddenly  with  a  strangely  erroneous  recollection  of  our 
recent  dispute,  "I  told  you  so  the  other  day,  you  remem- 
ber; and  you  said  I  was  too  generous.  And  what  did  you 
tell  me  about  the  daughter?  You're  in  love  with  her?  Ah, 
yes!  What  a  muddle!" 

I  respected  his  confusion.  "You  say  you've  left  me  noth- 
ing," I  answered.  "Leave  me  this." 

For  all  reply,  he  turned  over  with  a  groan,  and  relapsed 
into  stupor.  The  nurse  shortly  afterwaids  came  to  re- 
lieve me;  but  though  I  lay  down,  I  was  unable  to  sleep. 
The  personal  possession  of  that  little  scrap  of  paper  acted 
altogether  too  potently  on  my  nerves  and  my  imagination. 
In  due  contravention  of  the  doctor,  Edgar  outlasted  the 
night  and  lived  into  another  day.  But  as  high  noon  was 
clashing  out  from  the  village  church,  and  I  stood  with  the 
doctor  by  his  bedside,  the  latter,  who  had  lifted  his  wrist 


212  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

a  little  to  test  his  pulse,  released  it,  not  with  the  tenderness 
we  render  to  suffering,  but  with  a  more  summary  reverence. 
Suffering  was  over. 

By  the  close  of  the  day  I  had  finished  my  preparations 
for  attending  my  step-brother's  remains  to  burial  in  Phila- 
delphia, among  those  of  his  own  people;  but  before  my  de- 
parture, I  measured  once  more  that  well-trodden  road  to 
the  house  by  the  river,  and  requested  a  moment's  conversa- 
tion with  Mr.  Guest.  In  spite  of  my  attention  being  other- 
wise engaged,  I  had  felt  strangely  all  day  that  I  carried  a 
sort  of  magic  talisman,  a  mystic  key  to  fortune.  I  was  con- 
stantly fumbling  in  my  waistcoat  pocket  to  see  whether  the 
talisman  was  really  there.  I  wondered  that  as  yet  Guest 
should  not  have  demanded  a  surrender  of  his  note;  but  I 
attributed  his  silence  to  shame,  scorn,  and  defiance,  and 
promised  myself  a  sort  of  golden  advantage  by  anticipating 
his  claim  with  the  cogent  frankness  of  justice.  But  as  soon 
as  he  entered  the  room  I  foresaw  that  Justice  must  show 
her  sword  as  well  as  her  scales.  His  resentment  had  deep- 
ened into  a  kind  of  preposterous  arrogance,  of  a  temper 
quite  insensible  to  logic.  He  had  more  than  recovered  his 
native  buoyancy  and  splendor;  there  was  an  air  of  feverish 
impudence  in  his  stare,  his  light  swagger,  in  the  yery  hue 
and  fashion  of  his  crimson  necktie.  He  had  an  evil  genius 
with  blond  curls  and  innumerable  flounces. 

"I  feel  it  to  be  a  sort  of  duty,"  I  said,  "to  inform  you 
that  my  brother  died  this  morning." 

"Your  brother?  What's  your  brother  to  me?  He's  been 
dead  to  me  these  three  days.  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?" 

I  was  irritated  by  the  man's  stupid  implacability,  and  my 
purpose  received  a  check.  "No,"  I  answered,  "I've  several 
things  more  to  touch  upon." 

"In  so  far  as  they  concern  my  daughter,  you  may  leave 
them  unsaid.  She  tells  me  of  your  offer  to — to  buy  off  my 
opposition.  Am  I  to  understand  that  it  was  seriously  made? 
You're  a  coarser  young  man  than  I  fancied!" 

"She  told  you  of  my  offer?"  I  cried. 

"O,  you  needn't  build  upon  that.  She  hasn't  mentioned 
your  name  since." 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  213 

I  was  silent,  thinking  my  own  thoughts.  I  won't  answer 
for  it,  that  in  spite  of  his  caution,  I  did  not  lay  an  im- 
material brick  or  two.  "You're  still  irreconcilable?"  I 
contented  myself  with  asking. 

He  assumed  an  expression  of  absolutely  jovial  contempt. 
"My  dear  sir,  I  detest  the  sight  of  you!" 

"Have  you  no  question  to  ask,  no  demand  to  make?" 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  in  silence,  with  just  the  least 
little  twitch  and  tremor  of  mouth  and  eye.  His  vanity,  I 
guessed  on  the  instant,  was  determined  stoutly  to  ignore  that 
I  held  him  at  an  advantage  and  to  refuse  me  the  satisfac- 
tion of  extorting  from  him  the  least  allusion  to  the  evidence 
of  his  disgrace.  He  had  known  bitter  compulsion  once;  he 
would  not  do  it  the  honor  to  concede  that  it  had  not  spent 
itself.  "No  demand  but  that  you  will  excuse  my  further 
attendance." 

My  own  vanity  took  a  hand  in  the  game.  Justice  her- 
self was  bound  to  go  no  more  than  half-way.  If  he  was 
not  afraid  of  his  little  paper,  he  might  try  a  week  or  two 
more  of  bravery.  I  bowed  to  him  in  silence  and  let  him 
depart.  As  I  turned  to  go  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with 
Mrs.  Beck,  whose  pretty  visage  was  flushed  with  curiosity. 
"You  and  Mr.  Guest  have  quarrelled,"  she  said  roundly. 

"As  you  see,  madam." 

"As  I  see,  madam!     But  what  is  it  all  about?" 

"About— his  daughter." 

"His  daughter  and  his  ducats!  You're  a  very  deep  young 
man,  in  spite  of  those  boyish  looks  of  yours.  Why  did  you 
never  tell  me  you  knew  him?  You've  quarrelled  about 
money  matters." 

"As  you  say,"  I  answered,  "I'm  very  deep.  Don't 
tempt  me  to  further  subterfuge." 

"He  has  lost  money,  I  know.    Is  it  much?    Tell  me 
that." 

"It's  an  enormous  sum!"  I  said,  with  mock  solemnity. 

"Provoking  man!"  And  she  gave  a  little  stamp  of  dis- 
gust. 

"He's  in  trouble,"  I  said.  "To  a  woman  of  your  tender 
sympathies  he  ought  to  be  more  interesting  than  ever.". 


214  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

She  mused  a  moment,  fixing  me  with  her  keen  blue  eye. 
"It's  a  sad  responsibility  to  have  a  heart!"  she  murmured. 
"In  that,"  I  said,  "we  perfectly  agree." 


VI 

It  was  a  singular  fact  that  Edgar's  affairs  turned  out  to 
be  in  by  no  means  the  exemplary  order  in  which  he  had 
flattered  himself  he  placed  them.  They  were  very  much  at 
sixes  and  sevens.  The  discovery,  to  me,  was  almost  a 
shock.  I  might  have  drawn  from  it  a  pertinent  lesson  on 
the  fallacy  of  human  pretensions.  The  gentleman  whom 
Edgar  had  supremely  honored  (as  he  seemed  to  assume  in 
his  will)  by  appointing  his  executor,  responded  to  my  inno- 
cent surprise  by  tapping  his  forehead  with  a  peculiar  smile. 
It  was  partly  from  curiosity  as  to  the  value  of  this  expla- 
nation, that  I  helped  him  to  look  into  the  dense  confusion 
which  prevailed  in  my  step-brother's  estate.  It  revealed 
certainly  an  odd  compound  of  madness  and  method.  I 
learned  with  real  regret  that  the  twenty  eleemosynary  beds 
at  Philadelphia  must  remain  a  superb  conception.  I  was 
horrified  at  every  step  by  the  broad  license  with  which  his 
will  had  to  be  interpreted.  All  profitless  as  I  was  in  the 
case,  when  I  thought  of  the  comfortable  credit  in  which  he 
had  died,  I  felt  like  some  greedy  kinsman  of  tragedy  mak- 
ing impious  havoc  with  a  sacred  bequest.  These  matters 
detained  me  for  a  week  in  New  York,  where  I  had  joined 
my  brother's  executor.  At  my  earliest  moment  of  leisure, 
I  called  upon  Crawford  at  the  office  of  a  friend  to  whom  he 
had  addressed  me,  and  learned  that  after  three  or  four 
dismally  restless  days  in  town,  he  had  taken  a  summary 
departure  for  L.  A  couple  of  days  later,  I  was  struck  with 
a  certain  dramatic  connection  between  his  return  and  the 
following  note  from  Mr.  Guest,  which  I  give  verbally,  in 
its  pregnant  brevity: — 

SIR: — I  possess  a  claim  on  your  late  brother's  estate 
which  it  is  needless  to  specify.  You  will  either  satisfy  it  by 
return  of  mail  or  forfeit  forever  the  common  respect  of 
gentlemen.  J.G. 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  215 

Things  had  happened  with  the  poor  man  rather  as  I 
hoped  than  as  I  expected.  He  had  borrowed  his  recent  ex- 
aggerated defiance  from  the  transient  smiles  of  Mrs.  Beck. 
They  had  gone  to  his  head  like  the  fumes  of  wine,  and  he 
had  dreamed  for  a  day  that  he  could  afford  to  snap  his 
fingers  at  the  past.  What  he  really  desired  and  hoped  of 
Mrs.  Beck  I  was  puzzled  to  say.  In  this  woful  disrepair  of 
his  fortunes  he  could  hardly  have  meant  to  hold  her  to  a 
pledge  of  matrimony  extorted  in  brighter  hours.  He  was 
infatuated,  I  believed,  partly  by  a  weak,  spasmodic  optim- 
ism which  represented  his  troubles  as  momentary,  and  en- 
joined him  to  hold  firm  till  something  turned  up,  and  partly 
by  a  reckless  and  frivolous  susceptibility  to  the  lady's  un- 
scrupulous blandishments.  While  they  prevailed,  he  lost 
all  notion  of  the  wholesome  truth  of  things,  and  would  have 
been  capable  of  any  egregious  folly.  Mrs.  Beck  was  in  love 
with  him,  in  so  far  as  she  was  capable  of  being  in  love;  his 
gallantry,  of  all  gallantries,  suited  her  to  a  charm;  but  she 
reproached  herself  angrily  with  this  amiable  weakness,  and 
prudence  every  day  won  back  an  inch  of  ground.  Poor 
Guest  indeed  had  clumsily  snuffed  out  his  candle.  He  had 
slept  in  the  arms  of  Delilah,  and  he  had  waked  to  find  that 
Delilah  had  guessed,  if  not  his  secret,  something  uncomfort- 
ably like  it.  Crawford's  return  had  found  Mrs.  Beck  with 
but  a  scanty  remnant  of  sentiment  and  a  large  accession 
of  prudence,  which  was  graciously  placed  at  his  service. 
Guest,  hereupon,  as  I  conjectured,  utterly  disillusioned  by 
the  cynical  frankness  of  her  defection,  had  seen  his  horizon 
grow  ominously  dark,  and  begun  to  fancy,  as  I  remained 
silent,  that  there  was  thunder  in  the  air.  His  pompous 
waiving,  in  his  note,  of  allusion  both  to  our  last  meeting 
and  to  my  own  present  claim,  seemed  to  me  equally  char- 
acteristic of  his  weakness  and  of  his  distress.  The  bitter 
after-taste  of  Mrs.  Beck's  coquetry  had,  at  all  events, 
brought  him  back  to  reality.  For  myself,  the  real  fact  in 
the  matter  was  the  image  of  Laura  Guest,  sitting  pensive, 
like  an  exiled  pricess. 

I  sent  him  nothing  by  return  of  mail.  On  my  arrival  in 
New  York,  I  had  enclosed  the  precious  document  in  an 


216  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

envelope,  addressed  it,  and  stamped  it,  and  put  it  back  in 
my  pocket.  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  a  belief  that  by  that 
sign  I  should  conquer.  Several  times  I  drew  it  forth  and 
laid  it  on  the  table  before  me,  reflecting  that  I  had  but  a 
word  to  say  to  have  it  dropped  into  the  post.  Cowardly, 
was  it,  to  keep  it?  But  what  was  it  to  give  up  one's  mis- 
tress without  a  battle?  Which  was  the  uglier,  my  harsh- 
ness or  Guest's?  In  a  holy  cause, — and  holy,  you  may  be 
sure,  I  had  dubbed  mine, — were  not  all  arms  sanctified? 
Possession  meant  peril,  and  peril  to  a  manly  sense,  of  soul 
and  conscience,  as  much  as  of  person  and  fortune.  Mine, 
at  any  rate,  should  share  the  danger.  It  was  a  sinister-look- 
ing talisman  certainly;  but  when  it  had  failed,  it  would  be 
time  enough  to  give  it  up. 

In  these  thoughts  I  went  back  to  L.  I  had  taken  the 
morning  train;  I  arrived  at  noon,  and  with  small  delay 
proceeded  to  the  quiet  little  house  which  harbored  such 
world-vexed  spirits.  It  was  one  of  the  first  days  of  Sep- 
tember, and  the  breath  of  auttimn  was  in  the  air.  Sum- 
mer still  met  the  casual  glance;  but  the  infinite  light  of 
summer  had  found  its  term;  it  was  as  if  there  were  a  leak 
in  the  crystal  vault  of  the  firmament  through  which  the 
luminous  ether  of  June  was  slowly  stealing  away. 

Mr.  Guest,  I  learned  from  the  servant,  had  started  on  a 
walk, — to  the  mill,  she  thought,  three  miles  away.  I  sent 
in  my  card  to  Laura,  and  went  into  the  garden  to  await  her 
appearance — or  her  answer.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes, 
I  saw  her  descend  from  the  piazza,  and  advance  down  the 
long  path.  Her  light  black  dress  swept  the  little  box- 
borders,  and  over  her  head  she  balanced  a  white  parasol. 
I  met  her,  and  she  stopped,  silent  and  grave.  "I've  come 
to  learn,"  I  said,  "that  absence  has  not  been  fatal  to  me." 

"You've  hardly  been  absent.  You  left  a — an  influence 
behind, — a  very  painful  one.  In  Heaven's  name!"  she 
cried,  with  vehemence,  "what  horrible  wrong  have  you 
done?" 

"I  have  done  no  horrible  wrong.  Do  you  believe  me?" 
She  scanned  my  face  searchingly  for  a  moment;  then  she 
gave  a  long,  gentle,  irrepressible  sigh  of  relief.  "Do  you 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  217 

fancy  that  if  I  had,  I  could  meet  your  eyes,  feel  the  folds 
of  your  dress?  I've  done  that  which  I  have  bitterly  wished 
undone;  I  did  it  in  ignorance,  weakness,  and  folly;  I've  re- 
pented in  passion  and  truth.  Can  a  man  do  more?" 

"I  never  was  afraid  of  the  truth,"  she  answered  slowly; 
"I  don't  see  that  I  need  fear  it  now.  I'm  not  a  child.  Te41 
me  the  absolute  truth!" 

"The  absolute  truth,"  I  said,  "is  that  your  father  once 
saw  me  in  a  very  undignified  position.  It  made  such  an  im- 
pression on  him  that  he's  unable  to  think  of  me  in  any 
other.  You  see  I  was  rather  cynically  indifferent  to  his 
observation,  for  I  didn't  know  him  then  as  your  father." 

She  gazed  at  me  with  the  same  adventurous  candor,  and 
blushed  a  little  as  I  became  silent,  then  turned  away  and 
strolled  along  the  path.  "It  seems  a  miserable  thing,"  she 
said,  "that  two  gentle  spirits  like  yours  should  have  an  ir- 
reparable difference.  When  good  men  hate  each  other,  what 
are  they  to  do  to  the  bad  men?  You  must  excuse  my  want 
of  romance,  but  I  cannot  listen  to  a  suitor  of  whom  my 
father  complains.  Make  peace!" 

"Shall  peace  with  him  be  peace  with  you?" 

"Let  me  see  you  frankly  shake  hands,"  she  said,  not 
directly  answering.  "Be  very  kind!  You  don't  know  what 
he  has  suffered  here  lately."  She  paused,  as  if  to  conceal 
a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

Had  she  read  between  the  lines  of  that  brilliant  impro- 
visation of  mine,  or  was  she  moved  chiefly  with  pity  for  his 
recent  sentimental  tribulations, — pitying  them  the  more 
that  she  respected  them  the  less?  "He  has  walked  to  the 
mill,"  I  said;  "I  shall  meet  him,  and  we'll  come  back  arm  in 
arm."  I  turned  away,  so  that  I  might  not  see  her  face 
pleading  for  a  clemency  which  would  make  me  too  delicate. 
I  went  down  beside  the  river  and  followed  the  old  towing- 
path,  now  grassy  with  disuse.  Reaching  the  shabby  wooden 
bridge  below  the  mill,  I  stopped  midway  across  it  and 
leaned  against  the  railing.  Below,  the  yellow  water  swirled 
past  the  crooked  piers.  I  took  my  little  sealed  paper  out 
of  my  pocket-book  and  held  it  over  the  stream,  almost  court- 
ing the  temptation  to  drop  it;  but  the  temptation  never 


2i 8  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

came.  I  had  just  put  it  back  in  my  pocket  when  I  heard 
a  footstep  on  the  planks  behind  me.  Turning  round  I  be- 
held Mr.  Guest.  He  looked  tired  and  dusty  with  his  walkj 
and  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  been  trying  by  violent 
exercise  to  shake  off  a  moral  incubus.  Judging  by  his  hag- 
gard brow  and  heavy  eyes,  he  had  hardly  succeeded.  As 
he  recognized  me,  he  started  just  perceptibly,  as  if  he  were 
too  weary  to  be  irritated.  He  was  about  to  pass  on  without 
speaking,  but  I  intercepted  him.  My  movement  provoked  a 
flash  in  his  sullen  pupil.  "I  came  on  purpose  to  meet  you," 
I  said.  "I  have  just  left  your  daughter,  and  I  feel  more 
than  ever  how  passionately  I  love  her.  Once  more,  I  de- 
mand that  you  withdraw  your  opposition." 

"Is  that  your  answer  to  my  letter?"  he  asked,  eyeing  me 
from  under  his  brows. 

"Your  letter  puts  me  in  a  position  to  make  my  demand 
with  force.  I  refuse  to  submit  to  this  absurd  verdict  of  ac- 
cident. I  have  just  seen  your  daughter,  and  I  have  author- 
ity to  bring  you  to  reason." 

"My  daughter  has  received  you?"  he  cried,  flushing. 

"Most  kindly." 

"You  scoundrel!" 

"Gently,  gently.  Shake  hands  with  me  here  where  we 
stand,  and  let  me  keep  my  promise  to  Laura  of  our  coming 
back  to  her  arm  in  arm,  at  peace,  reconciled,  mutually  for- 
giving and  forgetting,  or  I  walk  straight  back  and  put  a  cer- 
tain little  paper  into  her  hands." 

He  turned  deadly  pale,  and  a  fierce  oath  broke  from  his 
lips.  He  had  been  beguiled,  I  think,  by  my  neglect  of  his 
letter,  into  the  belief  that  Edgar  had  not  died  without  de- 
stroying his  signature, — a  belief  rendered  possible  by  an 
indefeasible  faith  he  must  have  had  in  my  step-brother's 
probity.  "You've  kept  that  thing!"  he  cried.  "The  Lord 
be  praised!  I'm  as  honest  a  man  as  either  of  you!" 

"Say  but  two  words, — 'Take  her!' — and  we  shall  be  hon- 
est together  again.  The  paper's  yours."  He  turned  away 
and  learned  against  the  railing  of  the  bridge,  with  his  head 
in  his  hands,  watching  the  river. 

"Take  your  time,"  I  continued;  "I  give  you  two  hours- 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  219 

Go  home,  look  at  your  daughter,  and  choose.  An  hour 
hence  I'll  join  you.  If  I  find  you've  removed  your  veto,  I 
undertake  to  make  you  forget  you  ever  offered  it:  if  I 
find  you've  maintained  it,  I  expose  you." 

"In  either  case  you  lose  your  mistress.  Whatever  Laura 
may  think  of  me,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  what  she 
will  think  of  you." 

"I  shall  be  forgiven.  Leave  that  to  me!  That's  my  last 
word.  In  a  couple  of  hours  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of 
coming  to  learn  yours." 

"O  Laura,  Laura!"  cried  the  poor  man  in  his  bitter 
trouble.  But  I  left  him  and  walked  away.  I  turned  as  I 
reached  the  farther  end  of  the  bridge,  and  saw  him  slowly 
resume  his  course.  I  marched  along  the  road  to  the  mill,  so 
excited  with  having  uttered  this  brave  ultimatum  that  I 
hardly  knew  whither  I  went.  But  at  last  I  bethought  me  of 
a  certain  shady  stream-side  nook  just  hereabouts,  which  a 
little  exploration  soon  discovered.  A  shallow  cove,  screened 
from  the  road  by  dense  clumps  of  willows,  stayed  the  cur-- 
rent a  moment  in  its  grassy  bend.  I  had  noted  it  while 
boating,  as  a  spot  where  a  couple  of  lovers  might  aptly  dis- 
embark and  moor  their  idle  skiff;  and  I  was  now  tempted  to 
try  its  influence  in  ardent  solitude.  I  flung  myself  on  the 
ground,  and  as  I  listened  to  the  light  gurgle  of  the  tarrying 
stream  and  to  the  softer  rustle  of  the  cool  gray  leafage 
around  me,  I  suddenly  felt  that  I  was  exhausted  and  sick- 
ened. I  lay  motionless,  watching  the  sky  and  resting  from 
my  anger.  Little  by  little  it  melted  away  and  left  me  hor- 
ribly ashamed.  How  long  I  lay  there  I  know  not,  nor 
what  was  the  logic  of  my  meditations,  but  an  ineffable 
change  stole  over  my  spirit.  There  are  fathomless  depths 
in  spiritual  mood  and  motive.  Opposite  me,  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  stream,  winding  along  a  path  through  the 
bushes,  three  or  four  cows  had  come  down  to  drink.  I  sat 
up  and  watched  them.  A  young  man  followed  them,  in  a 
red  shirt,  with  his  trousers  in  his  boots.  While  they  were 
comfortably  nosing  the  water  into  ripples,  he  sat  down  on 
a  stone  and  began  to  light  his  pipe.  In  a  moment  I  fancied 
I  saw  the  little  blue  thread  of  smoke  curl  up  from  the 


220  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

bowl.  From  beyond,  just  droning  through  the  air,  came 
the  liquid  rumble  of  the  mill.  There  seemed  to  me  some- 
thing in  this  vision  ineffably  pastoral,  peaceful,  and  inno- 
cent; it  smote  me  to  my  heart  of  hearts.  I  felt  a  nameless 
wave  of  impulse  start  somewhere  in  the  innermost  vitals  of 
conscience  and  fill  me  with  passionate  shame.  I  fell  back 
on  the  grass  and  burst  into  tears. 

The  sun  was  low  and  the  breeze  had  risen  when  I  rose  to 
my  feet.  I  scrambled  back  to  the  road,  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  hurried  home  by  the  towing-path.  My  heart,  however, 
beat  faster  than  my  footfalls.  I  passed  into  the  garden 
and  advanced  to  the  house;  as  I  stepped  upon  the  piazza,  I 
was  met  by  Mrs.  Beck.  "Answer  me  a  simple  question," 
she  cried,  laying  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  you  ask  one!"  I  retorted,  im- 
patiently. 

"Has  Mr.  Guest  lost  his  mind?" 
"For  an  hourl     I've  brought  it  back  to  him." 
"You've  a  pretty  quarrel  between  you.    He  comes  up  an 
hour  ago,  as  I  was  sitting  in  the  garden  with — with  Mr. 
Crawford,  requests  a  moment's  interview,  leads  me  apart 
and — offers  himself.    'If  you'll  have  me,  take  me  now;  you 
won't  an  hour  hence/  he  cried.    'Neither  now  nor  an  hour 
hence,  thank  you/  said  I.    'My  affections  are  fixed — else- 
where.' " 

"You've  not  lost  your  head,  at  any  rate,"  said  I;  and, 
releasing  myself,  I  went  into  the  parlor.  I  had  a  horrible 
fear  of  being  too  late.  The  candles  stood  lighted  on  the 
piano,  and  tea  had  been  brought  in,  but  the  kettle  was 
singing  unheeded.  On  the  divan  facing  the  window  sat 
Guest,  lounging  back  on  the  cushions,  his  hat  and  stick 
flung  down  beside  him,  his  hands  grasping  his  knees,  his 
head  thrown  back,  and  his  eyes  closed.  That  he  should 
have  remained  so  for  an  hour,  unbrushed  and  unfurbished, 
spoke  volumes  as  to  his  mental  state.  Near  him  sat  Laura, 
looking  at  him  askance  in  mute  anxiety.  What  had  passed 
between  them?  Laura's  urgent  glance  as  I  entered  was  full 
of  trouble,  but  I  fancied  without  reproach.  He  had  ap- 


GUEST'S  CONFESSION  221 

parently  chosen  neither  way;  he  had  simply  fallen  there, 
weary,  desperate,  and  dumb. 

"I'm  disappointed!"  Laura  said  to  me  gravely. 

Her  father  opened  his  eyes,  stared  at  me  a  moment,  and 
then  closed  them.  I  answered  nothing;  but  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  went  and  took  my  seat  beside  Guest.  I 
laid  my  hand  on  his  own  with  a  grasp  of  which  he  felt, 
first  the  force,  then,  I  think,  the  kindness;  for,  after  a 
momentary  spasm  of  repulsion,  he  remained  coldly  passive. 
He  must  have  begun  to  wonder.  "Be  so  good,"  I  said  to 
Laura,  "as  to  bring  me  one  of  the  candles."  ,  She  looked 
surprised;  but  she  complied  and  came  toward  me,  holding 
the  taper,  like  some  pale  priestess  expecting  a  portent.  I 
drew  out  the  note  and  held  it  to  the  flame.  "Your  father 
and  I  have  had  a  secret,"  I  said,  "which  has  been  a  burden 
to  both  of  us.  Here  it  goes."  Laura's  hand  trembled  as  she 
held  the  candle,  and  mine  as  I  held  the  paper;  but  between 
us  the  vile  thing  blazed  and  was  consumed.  I  glanced 
askance  at  Guest;  he  was  staring  wide-eyed  at  the  dropping 
cinders.  When  the  last  had  dropped,  I  took  the  candle, 
rose,  and  carried  it  back  to  the  piano.  Laura  dropped  on 
her  knees  before  her  father,  and,  while  my  back  was  turned, 
something  passed  between  them  with  which  I  was  concerned 
only  in  its  consequences. 

When  I  looked  round,  Guest  had  risen  and  was  passing 
his  fingers  through  his  hair.  "Daughter,"  he  said,  "when  I 
came  in,  what  was  it  I  said  to  you?" 

She  stood  for  an  instant  with  her  eyes  on  the  floor.  Then, 
"I've  forgotten!"  she  said,  simply. 

Mrs.  Beck  had  passed  in  by  the  window  in  time  to  hear 
these  last  words.  "Do  you  know  what  you  said  to  me 
when  you  came  in?"  she  cried,  mirthfully  shaking  a  finger 
at  Guest.  He  laughed  nervously,  picked  up  his  hat,  and 
stood  looking,  with  an  air  of  odd  solemnity,  at  his  boots. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  he  was  dusty  and 
dishevelled.  He  settled  his  shirt-collar  and  levelled  a  glance 
at  the  mirror,  in  which  he  caught  my  eye.  He  tried  hard 
to  look  insensible;  but  it  was  the  glance  of  a  man  who  felt 


222  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

more  comfortable  than  he  had  done  in  a  month.  He 
marched  stiffly  to  the  door. 

"Are  you  going  to  dress?"  said  Mrs.  Beck. 

"From  head  to  foot!"  he  cried,  with  violence. 

"Be  so  good,  then,  if  you  see  Mr.  Crawford  in  the  hall, 
as  to  ask  him  to  come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea." 

Laura  had  passed  out  to  the  piazza,  where  I  immediately 
joined  her.  "Your  father  accepts  me,"  I  said;  "there  is 
nothing  left  but  for  you " 

Five  minutes  later,  I  looked  back  through  the  window 
to  see  if  we  were  being  observed.  But  Mrs.  Beck  was 
busy  adding  another  lump  of  sugar  to  Crawford's  cup  of 
tea.  His  eye  met  mine,  however,  and  I  fancied  he  looked 
sheepish. 


ADINA 


WE  had  been  talking  of  Sam  Scrope  round  the  fire 
— mindful,  such  of  us,  of  the  rule  de  mortuis.  Our 
host,  however,  had  said  nothing;  rather  to  my  surprise, 
as  I  knew  he  had  been  particularly  intimate  with  our 
friend.  But  when  our  group  had  dispersed,  and  I  remained 
alone  with  him,  he  brightened  the  fire,  offered  me  another 
cigar,  puffed  his  own  awhile  with  a  retrospective  air,  and 
told  me  the  following  tale: 

Eighteen  years  ago  Scrope  and  I  were  together  in  Rome. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  and  I 
had  grown  fond  of  him,  as  a  mild,  meditative  youth  often 
does  of  an  active,  irreverent,  caustic  one.  He  had  in  those 
days  the  germs  of  the  eccentricities, — not  to  call  them  by 
a  hard  name, — which  made  him  afterwards  the  most  intol- 
erable of  the  friends  we  did  not  absolutely  break  with;  he 
was  already,  as  they  say,  a  crooked  stick.  He  was  cynical, 
perverse,  conceited,  obstinate,  brilliantly  clever.  But  he 
was  young,  and  youth,  happily,  makes  many  of  our  vices 
innocent.  Scrope  had  his  merits,  or  our  friendship  would 
not  have  ripened.  He  was  not  an  amiable  man,  but  he  was 
an  honest  one — in  spite  of  the  odd  caprice  I  have  to  relate; 
and  half  my  kindness  for  him  was  based  in  a  feeling  that 
at  bottom  in  spite  of  his  vanity,  he  enjoyed  his  own  irrita- 
bility as  little  as  other  people.  It  was  his  fancy  to  pre- 
tend that  he  enjoyed  nothing,  and  that  what  sentimental 
travelers  call  picturesqueness  was  a  weariness  to  his  spirit; 
but  the  world  was  new  to  him  and  the  charm  of  fine  things 
often  took  him  by  surprise  and  stole  a  march  on  his  pre- 
mature cynicism.  He  was  an  observer  in  spite  of  himself, 

223 


224  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

and  in  his  happy  moods,  thanks  to  his  capital  memory  and 
ample  information,  an  excellent  critic  and  most  profitable 
companion.  He  was  a  punctilious  classical  scholar.  My 
boyish  journal,  kept  in  those  days,  is  stuffed  with  learned 
allusions;  they  are  all  Scrope's.  I  brought  to  the  service  of 
my  Roman  experience  much  more  loose  sentiment  than 
rigid  science.  It  was  indeed  a  jocular  bargain  between  us 
that  in  our  wanderings,  picturesque  and  archaeological,  I 
should  undertake  the  sentimental  business — the  raptures, 
the  reflections,  the  sketching,  the  quoting  from  Byron.  He 
considered  me  absurdly  Byronic,  and  when,  in  the  manner 
of  tourists  at  that  period,  I  breathed  poetic  sighs  over  the 
subjection  of  Italy  to  the  foreign  foe,  he  used  to  swear  that 
Italy  had  got  no  more  than  she  deserved,  that  she  was  a 
land  of  vagabonds  and  declaimers,  and  that  he  had  yet  to  see 
an  Italian  whom  he  would  call  a  man.  I  quoted  to  him 
from  Alfieri  that  the  "human  plant"  grew  stronger  in  Italy 
than  anywhere  else,  and  he  retorted,  that  nothing  grew 
strong  there  but  lying  and  cheating,  laziness,  beggary  and 
vermin.  Of  course  we  each  said  more  than  we  believed. 
If  we  met  a  shepherd  on  the  Campagna,  leaning  on  his 
crook  and  gazing  at  us  darkly  from  under  the  shadow  of 
his  matted  locks,  I  would  proclaim  that  he  was  the  hand- 
somest fellow  in  the  world,  and  demand  of  Scrope  to  stop 
and  let  me  sketch  him.  Scrope  would  confound  him  for  a 
filthy  scare-crow  and  me  for  a  drivelling  album-poet.  When 
I  stopped  in  the  street  to  stare  up  at  some  mouldering  pal- 
azzo  vith  a  patched  petticoat  hanging  to  dry  from  the 
drawing-room  window,  and  assured  him  that  its  haunted 
disrepair  was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  the  neat  barred  front 
of  my  Aunt  Esther's  model  mansion  in  Mount  Venion 
street,  he  would  seize  me  by  the  arm  and  march  me  off, 
pinching  me  till  I  shook  myself  free,  and  whelming  me,  my 
soul  and  my  palazzo  in  a  ludicrous  torrent  of  abuse.  The 
truth  was  that  the  picturesque  of  Italy,  both  in  man  and  in 
nature,  fretted  him,  depressed  him,  strangely.  He  was  con- 
sciously a  harsh  note  in  the  midst  of  so  many  mellow  har- 
monies; everything  seemed  to  say  to  him — "Don't  you 
wish  you  were  as  easy,  as  loveable,  as  carelessly  beautiful 


ADINA  225 

as  we?"  In  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  did  wish  it.  To 
appreciate  the  bitterness  of  this  dumb  disrelish  of  the 
Italian  atmosphere,  you  must  remember  how  very  ugly  the 
poor  fellow  was.  He  was  uglier  at  twenty  than  at  forty, 
for  as  he  grew  older  it  became  the  fashion  to  say  that  his 
crooked  features  were  "distinguished."  But  twenty  years 
ago,  in  the  infancy  of  modern  aesthetics,  he  could  not  have 
passed  for  even  a  bizarre  form  of  ornament.  In  a  single 
word,  poor  Scrope  looked  common:  that  was  where  the 
shoe  pinched.  Now,  you  know  that  in  Italy  almost  every- 
thing has,  to  the  outer  sense,  what  artists  call  style. 

In  spite  of  our  clashing  theories,  our  friendship  did 
ripen,  and  we  spent  together  many  hours,  deeply  seasoned 
with  the  sense  of  youth  and  freedom.  The  best  of  these, 
perhaps,  were  those  we  passed  on  horseback,  on  the  Cam- 
pagna;  you  remember  such  hours;  you  remember  those 
days  of  early  winter,  when  the  sun  is  as  strong  as  that  of  a 
New  England  June,  and  the  bare,  purple-drawn  slopes  and 
hollows  lie  bathed  in  the  yellow  light  of  Italy.  On  such 
a  day,  Scrope  and  I  mounted  our  horses  in  the  grassy  ter- 
race before  St.  John  Lateran,  and  rode  away  across  the 
broad  meadows  over  which  the  Claudian  Aqueduct  drags 
its  slow  length — stumbling  and  lapsing  here  and  there,  as 
it  goes,  beneath  the  burden  of  the  centuries.  We  rode  a 
long  distance — well  towards  Albano,  and  at  last  stopped 
near  a  low  fragment  of  ruin,  which  seemed  to  be  all  that 
was  left  of  an  ancient  tower.  Was  it  indeed  ancient,  or 
was  it  a  relic  of  one  of  the  numerous  mediaeval  fortresses,, 
with  which  the  grassy  desert  of  the  Campagna  is  studded? 
This  was  one  of  the  questions  which  Scrope,  as  a  competent 
classicist,  liked  to  ponder;  though  when  I  called  his  atten- 
tion to  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  fringe  of  wild  plants 
which  crowned  the  ruin,  and  detached  their  clear  filaments 
in  the  deep  blue  air,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said 
they  only  helped  the  brick-work  to  crumble.  We  tethered 
our  horses  to  a  wild  fig  tree  hard  by,  and  strolled  around 
the  tower.  Suddenly,  on  the  sunny  side  of  it,  we  came 
upon  a  figure  asleep  on  the  grass.  A  young  man  lay  there, 
all  unconscious,  with  his  head  upon  a  pile  of  weed-smoth- 


226  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

ered  stones.  A  rusty  gun  was  on  the  ground  beside  him,  and 
an  empty  game  bag,  lying  near  it,  told  of  his  being  an  un- 
lucky sportsman.  His  heavy  sleep  seemed  to  point  to  a 
long  morning's  fruitless  tramp.  And  yet  he  must  have  been 
either  very  unskilled,  or  very  little  in  earnest,  for  the 
Campagna  is  alive  with  small  game  every  month  in  the 
year — or  was,  at  least,  twenty  years  ago.  It  was  no  more 
than  I  owed  to  my  reputation  for  Byronism,  to  discover 
a  careless,  youthful  grace  in  the  young  fellow's  attitude. 
One  of  his  legs  was  flung  over  the  other;  one  of  his  arms 
was  thrust  back  under  his  head,  and  the  other  resting  loosely 
on  the  grass;  his  head  drooped  backward,  and  exposed  a 
strong,  young  throat;  his  hat  was  pulled  over  his  eyes,  so 
that  we  could  see  nothing  but  his  mouth  and  chin.  "An 
American  rustic  asleep  is  an  ugly  fellow,"  said  I;  "but  this 
young  Roman  clodhopper,  as  he  lies  snoring  there,  is  really 
statuesque;"  "clodhopper,"  was  for  argument,  for  our  rustic 
Endymion,  judging  by  his  garments,  was  something  better 
than  a  mere  peasant.  He  turned  uneasily  as  we  stood  above 
him,  and  muttered  something.  "It's  not  fair  to  wake  him," 
I  said,  and  passed -my  arm  into  Scrope's,  to  lead  him  away; 
but  he  resisted,  and  I  saw  that  something  had  struck  him. 

In  his  change  of  position,  our  picturesque  friend  had 
opened  the  hand  which  was  resting  on  the  grass.  The  palm, 
turned  upward,  contained  a  dull-colored  oval  object,  of  the 
size  of  a  small  snuff-box.  "What  has  he  got  there?"  I  said 
to  Scrope;  but  Scrope  only  answered  by  bending  over  and 
looking  at  it.  "Really,  we  are  taking  great  liberties  with 
the  poor  fellow,"  I  said.  "Let  him  finish  his  nap  in  peace." 
And  I  was  on  the  point  of  walking  away.  But  my  voice 
had  aroused  him;  he  lifted  his  hand,  and,  with  the  move- 
ment, the  object  I  have  compared  to  a  snuff-box  caught  the 
light,  and  emitted  a  dull  flash. 

"It's  a  gem,"  said  Scrope,  "recently  disinterred  and  en- 
crusted with  dirt." 

The  young  man  awoke  in  earnest,  pushed  back  his  hat, 
stared  at  us,  and  slowly  sat  up.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  to 
see  if  he  were  not  still  dreaming,  then  glanced  at  the  gem, 
if  gem  it  was,  thrust  his  hand  mechanically  into  his  pocket, 


ADINA  227 

and  gave  us  a  broad  smile.  "Gentle,  ? erene  Italian  nature! " 
I  exclaimed.  "A  young  New  England  farmer,  whom  we 
should  have  disturbed  in  this  fashion,  would  wake  up  with 
an  oath  and  a  kick." 

"I  mean  to  test  his  gentleness,"  said  Scrope.  "Fm  de- 
termined to  see  what  he  has  got  there."  Scrope  was  very 
fond  of  small  bric-a-brac,  and  had  ransacked  every  curi- 
osity shop  in  Rome.  It  was  an  oddity  among  his  many 
oddities,  but  it  agreed  well  enough  with  the  rest  of  them. 
What  he  looked  for  and  relished  in  old  prints  and  old  china 
was  not,  generally,  beauty  of  form  nor  romantic  association ; 
it  was  elaborate  and  patient  workmanship,  fine  engraving, 
skillful  method. 

"Good  day,"  I  said  to  our  young  man;  "we  didn't  mean 
to  interrupt  you." 

He  shook  himself,  got  up,  and  stood  before  us,  looking 
out  from  under  his  thick  curls,  and  still  frankly  smiling. 
There  was  something  very  simple, — a  trifle  silly, — in  his 
smile,  and  I  wondered  whether  he  was  not  under-witted. 
He  was  young,  but  he  was  not  a  mere  lad.  His  eyes  were 
dark  and  heavy,  but  they  gleamed  with  a  friendly  light, 
and  his  parted  lips  showed  the  glitter  of  his  strong,  white 
teeth.  His  complexion  was  of  a  fine,  deep  brown,  just  re- 
moved from  coarseness  by  that  vague  suffused  pallor  com- 
mon among  Italians.  He  had  the  frame  of  a  young  Hercu- 
les; he  was  altogether  as  handsome  a  vagabond  as  you 
could  wish  for  the  foreground  of  a  pastoral  landscape. 

"You've  not  earned  your  rest,"  said  Scrope,  pointing  to 
his  empty  game  bag;  "you've  got  no  birds." 

He  looked  at  the  bag  and  at  Scrope,  and  then  scratched 
his  head  and  laughed.  "I  don't  want  to  kill  them,"  he  said. 
"I  bring  out  my  gun  because  it's  stupid  to  walk  about  pull- 
ing a  straw!  And  then  my  uncle  is  always  grumbling  at 
me  for  not  doing  something.  When  he  sees  me  leave  the 
house  with  my  gun,  he  thinks  I  may,  at  least,  get  my  din- 
ner. He  didn't  know  the  lock's  broke;  even  if  I  had 
powder  and  shot,  the  old  blunderbuss  wouldn't  go  off. 
When  I'm  hungry  I  go  to  sleep."  And  he  glanced,  with 
his  handsome  grin,  at  his  recent  couch.  "The  birds  might 


228  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

come  and  perch  on  my  nose,  and  not  wake  me  up.  My 
uncle  never  thinks  of  asking  me  what  I  have  brought  home 
for  supper.  He  is  a  holy  man,  and  lives  on  black  bread 
and  beans." 

"Who  is  your  uncle?"  I  inquired. 

"The  Padre  Girolamo  at  Lariceia." 

He  looked  at  our  hats  and  whips,  asked  us  a  dozen  ques- 
tions about  our  ride,  our  horses,  and  what  we  paid  for 
them,  our  nationality,  and  our  way  of  life  in  Rome,  and 
at  last  walked  away  to  caress  our  browsing  animals  and 
scratch  their  noses.  "He  has  got  something  precious  there," 
Scrope  said,  as  we  strolled  after  him.  "He  has  evidently 
found  it  in  the  ground.  The  Campagna  is  full  of  treasures 
yet."  As  we  overtook  our  new  acquaintance  he  thrust  his 
indistinguishable  prize  behind  him,  and  gave  a  foolish  laugh, 
which  tried  my  companion's  patience.  "The  fellow's  an 
idiot!"  he  cried.  "Does  he  think  I  want  to  snatch  the 
thing?" 

"What  is  it  you've  got  there?"  I  asked  kindly. 

"Which  hand  will  you  have?"  he  said,  still  laughing. 

"The  right." 

"The  left,"  said  Scrope,  as  he  hesitated. 

He  fumbled  behind  him  a  moment  more,  and  then  pro- 
duced his  treasure  with  a  flourish.  Scrope  took  it,  wiped 
it  off  carefully  with  his  handkerchief,  and  bent  his  near- 
sighted eyes  over  it.  I  left  him  to  examine  it.  I  was 
more  interested  in  watching  the  Padre  Girolamo 's  nephew. 
The  latter  stood  looking  at  my  friend  gravely,  while  Scrope 
rubbed  and  scratched  the  little  black  stone,  breathed  upon 
it  and  held  it  up  to  the  light.  He  frowned  and  scratched 
his  head;  he  was  evidently  trying  to  concentrate  his  wits 
on  the  fine  account  he  expected  Scrope  to  give  of  it.  When 
I  glanced  towards  Scrope,  I  found  he  had  flushed  excitedly, 
and  I  immediately  bent  my  nose  over  it  too.  It  was  of 
about  the  size  of  a  small  hen's-egg,  of  a  dull  brown  color, 
stained  and  encrusted  by  long  burial,  and  deeply  corrugated 
on  one  surface.  Scrope  paid  no  heed  to  my  questions, 
but  continued  to  scrape  and  polish.  At  last — "How  did 
you  come  by  this  thing?"  he  asked  dryly. 


ADINA  229 

"I  found  it  in  the  earth,  a  couple  of  miles  from  here, 
this  morning."  And  the  young  fellow  put  out  his  hand 
nervously,  to  take  it  back.  Scrope  resisted  a  moment, 
but  thought  better,  and  surrendered  it.  As  an  old  mouser, 
he  began  instinctively  to  play  at  indifference.  Our  com- 
panion looked  hard  at  the  little  stone,  turned  it  over  and 
over,  then  thrust  it  behind  him  again,  with  his  simple- 
souled  laugh. 

"Here's  a  precious  chance,"  murmured  Scrope. 

"But  in  Heaven's  name,  what  is  it?"  I  demanded,  im- 
patiently. 

"Don't  ask  me.  I  don't  care  to  phrase  the  conjecture 
audibly — it's  immense — if  it's  what  I  think  it  is;  and  here 
stands  this  giggling  lout  with  a  prior  claim  to  it.  What 
shall  I  do  with  him?  I  should  like  to  knock  him  in  the 
head  with  the  butt  end  of  his  blunderbuss." 

"I  suppose  he'll  sell  you  the  thing,  if  you  offer  him 
enough." 

"Enough?  What  does  (he  know  about  enough?  He 
don't  know  a  topaz  from  a  turnip." 

"Is  it  a  topaz,  then?" 

"Hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  mentin  names.  He  must 
sell  it  as  a  turnip.  Make  him  tell  you  just  where  he  found 
it." 

He  told  us  very  frankly,  still  smiling  from  ear  to  ear. 
He  had  observed  in  a  solitary  ilex-tree,  of  great  age,  the 
traces  of  a  recent  lightning-stroke.  (A  week  of  unseason- 
ably sultry  weather  had,  in  fact,  some  days  before,  cul- 
minated in  a  terrific  thunder-storm.)  The  tree  had  been 
shivered  and  killed,  and  the  earth  turned  up  at  its  foot. 
The  bolt,  burying  itself,  had  dug  a  deep,  straight  hole,  in 
which  one  might  have  planted  a  stake.  "I  don't  know 
why,"  said  our  friend,  "but  as  I  stood  looking  at  it,  I 
thrust  the  muzzle  of  my  old  gun  into  the  aperture.  It 
descended  for  some  distance  and  stopped  with  a  strange 
noise,  as  if  it  were  striking  a  metallic  surface.  I  rammed 
it  up  and  down,  and  heard  the  same  nqise.  Then  I  said 
to  myself — 'Something  is  hidden  there — quattrini,  perhaps; 
let  us  see.'  I  made  a  spade  of  one  of  the  shivered  ilex- 


230  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

boughs,  dug,  and  scraped  and  scratched;  and,  in  twenty 
minutes,  fished  up  a  little,  rotten,  iron  box.  It  was  so 
rotten  that  the  lid  and  sides  were  as  thin  as  letter-paper. 
When  I  gave  them  a  knock,  they  crumbled.  It  was  filled 
with  other  bits  of  iron  of  the  same  sort,  which  seemed 
to  have  formed  the  compartments  of  a  case;  and  with  the 
damp  earth,  which  had  oozed  in  through  the  holes  and 
crevices.  In  the  middle  lay  this  stone,  embedded  in  earth 
and  mold.  There  was  nothing  else.  I  broke  the  box 
to  pieces  and  kept  the  stone.  'Ecco!" 

Scrope,  with  a  shrug,  repossessed  himself  of  the  moldy 
treasure,  and  our  friend,  as  he  gave  it  up,  declared  it  was 
a  thousand  years  old.  Julius  Caesar  had  worn  it  in  his 
crown! 

"Julius  Caesar  wore  no  crown,  my  dear  friend,"  said 
Scrope  urbanely.  "It  may  be  a  thousand  years  old,  and 
it  may  be  ten.  It  may  be  an — agate,  and  it  may  be  a 
flint!  I  don't  know.  But  if  you  will  sell  it  on  the 

chance? "  And  he  tossed  it  three  times  high  into 

the  air,  and  caught  it  as  it  fell. 

"I  have  my  idea  it's  precious,"  said  the  young  man. 
"Precious  things  are  found  here  every  day — why  shouldn't 
I  stumble  on  something  as  well  as  another?  Why  should 
the  lightning  strike  just  that  spot,  and  no  other?  It  was 
sent  there  by  my  patron,  the  blessed  Saint  Angelo!" 

He  was  not  such  a  simpleton,  after  all;  or  rather  he  was; 
a  puzzling  mixture  of  simplicity  and  sense.  "If  you  really 
want  the  thing,"  I  said  to  Scrope,  "make  him  an  offer, 
and  have  done  with  it." 

"  'Have  done  with  it,'  is  easily  said.  How  little  do  you 
suppose  he  will  take?" 

"I  haven't  the  smallest  idea  of  its  value." 

"Its  value  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  Estimate 
it  at  its  value  and  we  may  as  well  put  it  back  into  its 
hole — of  its  probable  value,  he  knows  nothing;  he  need 
never  know,"  and  Scrope,  musing  an  instant,  counted,  and 
flung  them  down  on  the  grass,  ten  silver  scudi — the  same 
number  of  dollars.  Angelo, — he  virtually  told  us  his  name, 
— watched  them  fall,  one  by  one,  but  made  no  movement 


ADINA  231 

to  pick  them  up.  But  his  eyes  brightened;  his  simplicity 
and  his  shrewdness  were  debating  the  question.  The  little 
heap  of  silver  was  most  agreeable;  to  make  a  poor  bargain, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  not.  He  looked  at  Scrope  with  a 
dumb  appeal  to  his  fairness  which  quite  touched  me.  It 
touched  Scrope,  too,  a  trifle;  for,  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, he  flung  down  another  scudo.  Angelo  gave  a  puzzled 
sigh,  and  Scrope  turned  short  about  and  began  to  mount. 
In  another  moment  we  were  both  in  the  saddle.  Angelo 
stood  looking  at  his  money.  "Are  you  satisfied?"  said  my 
companion,  curtly. 

The  young  fellow  gave  a  strange  smile.  "Have  you  a 
good  conscience?"  he  demanded. 

"Hang  your  impudence!"  cried  Scrope,  very  red.  "What's 
my  conscience  to  you?"  And  he  thrust  in  his  spurs  and 
galloped  away.  I  waved  my  hand  to  our  friend  and  fol- 
lowed more  slowly.  Before  long  I  turned  in  the  saddle 
and  looked  back.  Angelo  was  standing  as  we  had  left 
him,  staring  after  us,  with  his  money  evidently  yet  un- 
touched. But,  of  course,  he  would  pick  it  up! 

I  rode  along  with  my  friend  in  silence;  I  was  wondering 
over  his  off-hand  justice.  I  was  youthful  enough  to  shrink 
from  being  thought  a  Puritan  or  a  casuist,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  scented  sophistry  in  Scrope's  double  valuation 
of  Angelo's  treasure.  If  it  was  a  prize  for  him,  it  was  a 
prize  for  Angelo,  and  ten  scudi, — and  one  over, — was  meagre 
payment  for  a  prize.  It  cost  me  some  discomfort  to  find 
rigid  Sam  Scrope,  of  all  men,  capable  of  a  piece  of  bar- 
gaining which  needed  to  be  ingeniously  explained.  Such 
as  it  was,  he  offered  his  explanation  at  last — half  angrily, 
as  if  he  knew  his  logic  was  rather  grotesque.  "Say  it  out; 
say  it,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  he  cried.  "I  know  what  you're 
thinking — I've  played  that  pretty-faced  simpleton  a  trick, 
eh? — and  I'm  no  better  than  a  swindler,  evidently!  Let 
me  tell  you,  once  for  all,  that  I'm  not  ashamed  of  having 
got  my  prize  cheap.  It  was  ten  scudi  or  nothing!  If  I 
had  offered  a  farthing  more  I  should  have  opened  those 
sleepy  eyes  of  his.  It  was  a  case  to  pocket  one's  scruples 
and  act.  That  silly  boy  was  not  to  be  trusted  with  the 


232  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

keeping  of  such  a  prize  for  another  half  hour;  the  deuce 
knows  what  might  have  become  of  it.  I  rescued  it  in  the 
interest  of  art,  of  science,  of  taste.  The  proper  price  of 
the  thing  I  couldn't  have  dreamed  of  offering;  where  was 
I  to  raise  ten  thousand  dollars  to  buy  a  bauble?  Say  I 
had  offered  a  hundred — forthwith  our  picturesque  friend, 
thick-witted  though  he  is,  would  have  pricked  up  his  ears 
and  held  fast!  He  would  have  asked  time  to  reflect  and 
take  advice,  and  he  would  have  hurried  back  to  his  village 
and  to  his  uncle,  the  shrewd  old  priest,  Padre  Girolamo. 
The  wise-heads  of  the  place  would  have  held  a  conclave, 
and  decided — I  don't  know  what;  that  they  must  go  up  to 
Rome  and  see  Signor  Castillani,  or  the  director  of  the 
Papal  excavations.  Some  knowing  person  would  have  got 
wind  of  the  affair,  and  whispered  to  the  Padre  Girolamo 
that  his  handsome  nephew  had  been  guided  by  a  miracle 
to  a  fortune,  and  might  marry  a  contessina.  And  when  all 
was  done,  where  should  I  be  for  my  pains?  As  it  is,  I 
discriminate;  I  look  at  the  matter  all  round,  and  I  decide. 
I  get  my  prize;  the  ingenious  Angelo  gets  a  month's  carouse, 
— he'll  enjoy  it, — and  goes  to  sleep  again.  Pleasant  dreams 
to  him!  What  does  he  want  of  money?  Money  would 
have  corrupted  him!  I've  saved  the  contessina,  too;  I'm 
sure  he  would  have  beaten  her.  So,  if  we're  all  satisfied, 
is  it  for  you  to  look  black?  My  mind's  at  ease;  I*m 
neither  richer  nor  poorer.  I'm  not  poorer,  because  against 
my  eleven  scudi  may  stand  the  sense  of  having  given  a 
harmless  treat  to  an  innocent  lad;  I'm  not  richer,  because, 
— I  hope  you  understand, — I  mean  never  to  turn  my  stone 
into  money.  There  it  is  that  delicacy  comes  in.  It's  a 
stone  and  nothing  more;  and  all  the  income  I  shall  derive 
from  it  will  be  enjoying  the  way  people  open  their  eyes 
and  hold  their  breath  when  I  make  it  sparkle  under  the 
lamp,  and  tell  them  just  what  stone  it  is." 

"What  stone  is  it,  then,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  de- 
moralizing?" I  asked,  with  ardor. 

Scrope  broke  into  a  gleeful  chuckle,  and  patted  me  on 
the  arm.  "Pazrinza/  Wait  till  we  get  under  the  lamp, 


ADINA  233 

some  evening,  and  then  I'll  make  it  sparkle  and  tell  you. 
I  must  be  sure  first,"  he  added,  with  sudden  gravity. 

But  it  was  the  feverish  elation  of  his  tone,  and  not  its 
gravity,  that  struck  me.  I  began  to  hate  the  stone;  it 
seemed  to  have  corrupted  him.  His  ingenious  account  of 
his  motives  left  something  vaguely  unexplained — almost 
inexplicable.  There  are  dusky  corners  in  the  simplest 
natures;  strange,  moral  involutions  in  the  healthiest. 
Scrope  was  not  simple,  and,  in  virtue  of  his  defiant  self- 
consciousness,  he  might  have  been  called  morbid;  so  that 
I  came  to  consider  his  injustice  in  this  particular  case  as 
the  fruit  of  a  vicious  seed  which  I  find  it  hard  to  name. 
Everything  in  Italy  seemed  mutely  to  reproach  him  with 
his  meager  faculty  of  pleasing;  the  indefinable  gracefulness 
of  nature  and  man  murmured  forever  in  his  ears  that  he 
was  an  angular  cynic.  This  was  the  real  motive  of  his 
intolerance  of  my  sympathetic  rhapsodies,  and  it  prompted 
him  now  to  regale  himself,  once  for  all,  with  the  sense  of 
an  advantage  wrested,  if  not  by  fair  means,  then  by  foul, 
from  some  sentient  form  of  irritating  Italian  felicity.  This 
is  a  rather  metaphysical  account  of  the  matter;  at  the  time 
I  guessed  the  secret,  without  phrasing  it. 

Scrope  carried  his  stone  to  no  appraiser,  and  asked  no 
archaeological  advice  about  it.  He  quietly  informed  him- 
self, as  if  from  general  curiosity,  as  to  the  best  methods 
of  cleansing,  polishing,  and  restoring  antique  gems,  laid 
in  a  provision  of  delicate  tools  and  acids,  turned  the  key  in 
his  door,  and  took  the  measure  of  his  prize.  I  asked 
him  no  questions,  but  I  saw  that  he  was  intensely  pre- 
occupied, and  was  becoming  daily  better  convinced  that  it 
was  a  rare  one.  He  went  about  whistling  and  humming 
odd  scraps  of  song,  like  a  lover  freshly  accepted.  When- 
ever I  heard  him  I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  our  friend  Angelo 
staring  blankly  after  us,  as  we  rode  away  like  a  pair  of 
ravishers  in  a  German  ballad.  Scrope  and  I  lodged  in  the 
same  house,  and  one  evening,  at  the  end  of  a  week,  after 
I  had  gone  to  bed,  he  made  his  way  into  my  room,  and 
shook  me  out  of  my  slumbers  as  if  the  house  were  on  fire. 
I  guessed  his  errand  before  he  had  told  it,  shuffled  on  my 


234  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

dressing-gown,  and  hurried  to  his  own  apartment.  "I 
couldn't  wait  till  morning,"  he  said,  "I've  just  given  it  the 
last  touch;  there  it  lies  in  its  imperial  beauty!" 

There  it  lay,  indeed,  under  the  lamp,  flashing  back  the 
light  from  its  glowing  heart — a  splendid  golden  topaz  on 
a  cushion  of  white  velvet.  He  thrust  a  magnifying  glass 
into  my  hand,  and  pushed  me  into  a  chair  by  the  table.  I 
saw  the  surface  of  the  stone  was  worked  in  elaborate  in- 
taglio, but  I  was  not  prepared  for  the  portentous  char- 
acter of  image  and  legend.  In  the  center  was  a  full- 
length  naked  figure,  which  I  supposed  at  first  to  be  a  pagan 
deity.  Then  I  saw  the  orb  of  sovereignty  in  one  out- 
stretched hand,  the  chiselled  imperial  scepter  in  the  other, 
and  the  laurel-crown  on  the  low-browed  head.  All  round 
the  face  of  the  stone,  near  the  edges,  ran  a  chain  of 
carven  figures — warriors,  and  horses,  and  chariots,  and 
young  men  and  women  interlaced  in  elaborate  confusion. 
Over  the  head  of  the  image,  within  this  concave  frieze, 
stood  the  inscription: 

DIVUS    TIBERIUS    C/ESAR   TOTIUS    ORBIS    IMPERATOR. 

The  workmanship  was  extraordinarily  delicate;  beneath 
the  powerful  glass  I  held  in  my  hand,  the  figures  revealed 
the  perfection  and  finish  of  the  most  renowned  of  antique 
marbles.  The  color  of  the  stone  was  superb,  and,  now  that 
its  purity  had  been  restored,  its  size  seemed  prodigious. 
It  was  in  every  way  a  gem  among  gems,  a  priceless 
treasure. 

"Don't  you  think  it  was  worth  while  getting  up  to 
shake  hands  with  the  Emperor  Tiberius?"  cried  Scrope, 
after  observing  my  surprise.  "Shabby  Nineteenth  Century 
Yankees,  as  we  are,  we  are  having  our  audience.  Down  on 
your  knees,  barbarian,  we're  in  a  tremendous  presence! 
Haven't  I  worked  all  these  days  and  nights,  with  my  little 
rags  and  files,  to  some  purpose?  I've  annulled  the  cen- 
turies— I've  resuscitated  a  totius  orbis  imperator.  Do  you 
conceive,  do  you  apprehend,  does  your  heart  thump 
against  your  ribs?  Not  as  it  should,  evidently.  This  is 


ADINA  235 

where  Caesar  wore  it,  dull  modern — here,  on  his  breast, 
near  the  shoulder,  framed  in  chiselled  gold,  circled  about 
with  pearls  as  big  as  plums,  clasping  together  the  two 
sides  of  his  gold-stiffened  mantle.  It  was  the  agraffe  of 
the  imperial  purple.  Tremble,  sir!"  and  he  took  up  the 
splendid  jewel,  and  held  it  against  my  breast.  "No  doubts 
— no  objections — no  reflections — or  we're  mortal  enemies. 
How  do  I  know  it — where 's  my  warrant?  It  simply  must 
be!  It's  too  precious  to  have  been  anything  else.  It's 
the  finest  intaglio  in  the  world.  It  has  told  me  its  secret; 
it  has  lain  whispering  classic  Latin  to  me  by  the  hour  all 
this  week  past." 

"And  has  it  told  you  how  it  came  to  be  buried  in  its 
iron  box?" 

"It  has  told  me  everything — more  than  I  can  tell  you 
now.  Content  yourself  for  the  present  with  admiring  it." 

Admire  it  I  did  for  a  long  time.  Certainly,  if  Scrope's 
hypothesis  was  not  sound,  it  ought  to  have  been,  and  if 
the  Emperor  Tiberius  had  never  worn  the  topaz  in  his 
mantle,  he  was  by  so  much  the  less  imperial.  But  the 
design,  the  legend,  the  shape  of  the  stone,  were  all  very 
cogent  evidence  that  the  gem  had  played  a  great  part. 
"Yes,  surely,"  I  said,  "it's  the  finest  of  known  intaglios." 

Scrope  was  silent  a  while.  "Say  of  unknown,"  he  an- 
swered at  last.  "No  one  shall  ever  know  it.  You  I  hereby 
hold  pledged  to  secrecy.  I  shall  show  it  to  no  one  else — 
except  to  my  mistress,  if  I  ever  have  one.  I  paid  for 
the  chance  of  its  turning  out  something  great.  I  couldn't 
pay  for  the  renown  of  possessing  it.  That  only  a  princely 
fortune  could  have  purchased.  To  be  known  as  the  owner 
of  the  finest  intaglio  in  the  world  would  make  a  great 
man  of  me,  and  that  would  hardly  be  fair  to  our  friend 
Angelo.  I  shall  sink  the  glory,  and  cherish  my  treasure 
for  its  simple  artistic  worth." 

"And  how  would  you  express  that  simple  artistic  worth 
in  Roman  scitdi?" 

"It's  impossible.     Fix  upon  any  sum  you  please." 

I  looked  again  at  the  golden  topaz,  gleaming  in  its  vel- 
vet nest;  and  I  felt  that  there  could  be  no  successful  effort 


236  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

to  conceal  such  a  magnificent  negation  of  obscurity.  "I 
recommend  you,"  I  said  at  last,  "to  think  twice  before 
showing  it  to  your  mistress." 

I  had  no  idea,  when  I  spoke,  that  my  words  were  timely ; 
for  I  had  vaguely  taken  for  granted  that  my  friend  was 
foredoomed  to  dispense  with  this  graceful  appendage,  very 
much  as  Peter  Schlemihl,  in  the  tale,  was  condemned  to 
have  no  shadow.  Nevertheless,  before  a  month  had  passed, 
he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  become  engaged  to  a  charming  girl. 
"Juxtaposition  is  much,"  says  Clough;  especially  juxta- 
position, he  implies,  in  foreign  countries;  and  in  Scrope's 
case  it  had  been  particularly  close.  His  cousin,  Mrs.  Wad- 
dington,  arrived  in  Rome,  and  with  her  a  young  girl  who, 
though  really  no  relative,  offered  him  all  the  opportunities 
of  cousinship,  added  to  the  remoter  charm  of  a  young  lady 
to  whom  he  had  to  be  introduced.  Adina  Waddington  was 
her  companion's  stepdaughter,  the  elder  lady  having,  some 
eight  years  before,  married  a  widower  with  a  little  girl. 
Mr.  Waddington  had  recently  died,  and  the  two  ladies  were 
just  emerging  from  their  deep  mourning.  These  dusky 
emblems  of  a  common  grief  helped  them  to  seem  united, 
as  indeed  they  really  were,  although  Mrs.  Waddington  was 
but  ten  years  older  than  her  stepdaughter.  She  was  an 
excellent  woman,  without  a  fault  that  I  know  of,  but 
that  of  thinking  all  the  world  as  good  as  herself  and  keep- 
ing dinner  waiting  sometimes  while  she  sketched  the  sunset. 
She  was  stout  and  fresh-colored,  she  laughed  and  talked 
rather  loud,  and  generally,  in  galleries  and  temples,  caused 
a  good  many  stiff  British  necks  to  turn  round. 

She  had  a  mania  for  excursions,  and  at  Frascati  and 
Tivoli  she  inflicted  her  good-humored  ponderosity  on  di- 
minutive donkeys  with  a  relish  which  seemed  to  prove  that 
a  passion  for  scenery,  like  all  our  passions,  is  capable  of 
making  the  best  of  us  pitiless.  I  had  often  heard  Scrope 
say  that  he  detested  boisterous  women,  but  he  forgave  his 
cousin  her  fine  spirits,  and  stepped  into  his  place  as  her 
natural  escort  and  adviser.  In  the  vulgar  sense  he  was 
not  selfish;  he  had  a  very  definite  theory  as  to  the  sacrifices 
a  gentleman  should  make  to  formal  courtesy;  but  I  was 


ADINA  237 

nevertheless  surprised  at  the  easy  terms  on  which  the  two 
ladies  secured  his  services.  The  key  to  the  mystery  was 
the  one  which  fits  so  many  locks;  he  was  in  love  with  Miss 
Waddington.  There  was  a  sweet  stillness  about  her  which 
balanced  the  widow's  exuberance.  Her  pretty  name  of 
Adina  seemed  to  me  to  have  somehow  a  mystic  fitness  to 
her  personality.  She  was  short  and  slight  and  blonde, 
and  her  black  dress  gave  a  sort  of  infantine  bloom  to 
her  fairness.  She  wore  her  auburn  hair  twisted  into  a 
thousand  fantastic  braids,  like  a  coiffure  in  a  Renaissance 
drawing,  and  she  looked  out  at  you  from  grave  blue  eyes, 
in  which,  behind  a  cold  shyness,  there  seemed  to  lurk  a 
tremulous  promise  to  be  franker  when  she  knew  you  better. 
She  never  consented  to  know  me  well  enough  to  be  very 
frank;  she  talked  very  little,  and  we  hardly  exchanged  a 
dozen  words  a  day;  but  I  confess  that  I  found  a  perturbing 
charm  in  those  eyes.  As  it  was  all  in  silence,  though,  there 
was  no  harm. 

Scrope,  however,  ventured  to  tell  his  love — or,  at  least, 
to  hint  at  it  eloquently  enough.  I  was  not  so  deeply 
smitten  as  to  be  jealous,  and  I  drew  a  breath  of  relief  when 
I  guessed  his  secret.  It  made  me  think  better  of  him  again. 
The  stand  he  had  taken  about  poor  Angelo's  gem,  in  spite 
of  my  efforts  to  account  for  it  philosophically,  had  given 
an  uncomfortable  twist  to  our  friendship.  I  asked  myself 
if  he  really  had  no  heart;  I  even  wondered  whether  there 
was  not  a  screw  loose  in  his  intellect.  But  here  was  a  hearty, 
healthy,  natural  passion,  such  as  only  an  honest  man  could 
feel — such  as  no  man  could  feel  without  being  the  better 
for  it.  I  began  to  hope  that  the  sunshine  of  his  fine  senti- 
ment would  melt  away  his  aversion  to  giving  Angelo  his 
dues.  He  was  charmed,  soul  and  sense,  and  for  a  couple 
of  months  he  really  forgot  himself,  and  ceased  to  send 
forth  his  unsweetened  wit  to  do  battle  for  his  ugly  face. 
His  happiness  rarely  made  him  "gush,"  as  they  say;  but  I 
could  see  that  he  was  vastly  contented  with  his  prospects. 
More  than  once,  when  we  were  together,  he  broke  into  a 
kind  of  nervous,  fantastic  laugh,  over  his  own  thoughts; 
and  on  his  refusal  to  part  with  them  for  the  penny  which 


238  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

one  offers  under  those  circumstances,  I  said  to  myself  that 
this  was  humorous  surprise  at  his  good  luck.  How  had  he 
come  to  please  that  exquisite  creature?  Of  course,  I  learned 
even  less  from  the  young  girl  about  her  own  view  of  the 
Case;  but  Mrs.  Waddington  and  I,  not  being  in  love  with 
each  other,  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  gossip  about  our 
companions  whenever  (which  was  very  often)  they  con- 
signed us  to  a  tete-b-tete. 

"She  tells  me  nothing,"  the  good-humored  widow  said; 
"and  if  I'm  to  know  the  answer  to  a  riddle,  I  must  have" 
it  in  black  and  white.  My  cousin  is  not  what  is  called 
'attractive/  but  I  think  Adina,  nevertheless,  is  interested 
in  him.  How  do  you  and  I  know  how  passion  may  trans- 
figure and  exalt  him?  And  who  shall  say  beforehand  what 
a  fanciful  young  girl  shall  do  with  that  terrible  little  piece 
of  machinery  she  calls  her  heart?  Adina  is  a  strange  child; 
she  is  fanciful  without  being  capricious.  For  all  I  know, 
she  may  admire  my  cousin  for  his  very  ugliness  and  queer- 
ness.  She  has  decided,  very  likely,  that  she  wants  an  'in- 
tellectual' husband,  and  if  Mr.  Scrope  is  not  handsome, 
nor  frivolous,  nor  over-polite,  there's  a  greater  chance  of  his 
being  wise."  Why  Adina  should  have  listened  to  my  friend, 
however,  was  her  own  business.  Listen  to  him  she  did, 
and  with  a  sweet  attentiveness  which  may  well  have  flat- 
tered and  charmed  him. 

We  rarely  spoke  of  the  imperial  topaz;  it  seemed  not  a 
subject  for  light  allusions.  It  might  properly  make  a  man 
feel  solemn  to  possess  it;  the  mere  memory  of  its  luster 
lay  like  a  weight  on  my  own  conscience.  I  had  felt,  as  we 
lost  sight  of  our  friend  Angelo,  that,  in  one  way  or  another, 
we  should  hear  of  him  again;  but  the  weeks  passed  by 
without  his  re-appearing,  and  my  conjectures  as  to  the 
sequel,  on  his  side,  of  his  remarkable  bargain  remained 
quite  unanswered.  Christmas  arrived,  and  with  it  the  usual 
ceremonies.  Scrope  and  I  took  the  requisite  vigorous 
measures, — it  was  a  matter,  you  know,  of  fists  and  elbows 
and  knees, — and  obtained  places  for  the  two  ladies  at  the 
Midnight  Mass  at  the  Sistine  Chapel.  Mrs.  Waddington 
was  my  especial  charge,  and  on  coming  out  we  found  we 


ADINA  239 

had  lost  sight  of  our  companions  in  the  crowd.  We  waited 
awhile  in  the  Colonnade,  but  they  were  not  among  the 
passers,  and  we  supposed  that  they  had  gone  home  inde- 
pendently, and  expected  us  to  do  likewise.  But  on  reach- 
ing Mrs.  Waddington 's  lodging  we  found  they  had  not  come 
in.  As  their  prolonged  absence  demanded  an  explanation, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  they  had  wandered  into  Saint  Peter's, 
with  many  others  of  the  attendants  at  the  Mass,  and  were 
watching  the  tapers  twinkle  in  its  dusky  immensity.  It 
was  not  perfectly  regular  that  a  young  lady  should  be  wan- 
dering about  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  a  very 
"unattractive'"  young  man;  but  "after  all,"  said  Mrs. 
Waddington,  "she's  almost  his  cousin."  By  the  time  they 
returned  she  was  much  more.  I  went  home,  went  to  bed, 
and  slept  as  late  as  the  Christmas  bells  would  allow  me. 
On  rising,  I  knocked  at  Scrope's  door  to  wish  him  the 
compliments  of  the  season,  but  on  his  coming  to  open  it 
for  me,  perceived  that  such  common-place  greetings  were 
quite  below  the  mark.  He  was  but  half  undressed,  and  had 
flung  himself,  on  his  return,  on  the  outside  of  his  bed. 
He  had  gone  with  Adina,  as  I  supposed,  into  Saint  Peter's, 
and  they  had  found  the  twinkling  tapers  as  picturesque  as 
need  be.  He  walked  about  the  room  for  some  time  rest- 
lessly, and  I  saw  that  he  had  something  to  say.  At  last 
he  brought  it  out.  "I  say,  I'm  accepted.  I'm  engaged. 
I'm  what's  called  a  happy  man." 

Of  course  I  wished  him  joy  on  the  news;  and  could 
assure  him,  with  ardent  conviction,  that  he  had  chosen 
well.  Miss  Waddington  was  the  loveliest,  the  purest,  the 
most  interesting  of  young  girls.  I  could  see  that  he  was 
grateful  for  my  sympathy,  but  he  disliked  "expansion," 
and  he  contented  himself,  as  he  shook  hands  with  me,  with 
simply  saying — "Oh  yes;  she's  the  right  thing."  He  took 
two  or  three  more  turns  about  the  room,  and  then  suddenly 
stopped  before  his  toilet-table,  and  pulled  out  a  tray  in  his 
dressing-case.  There  lay  the  great  intaglio;  larger  even 
than  I  should  have  dared  to  boast.  "That  would  be  a 
pretty  thing  to  offer  one's  fiancee''  he  said,  after  gazing 


240  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

at  it  for  some  time.  "How  could  she  wear  it^-how  could 
one  have  it  set?" 

"There  could  be  but  one  way,"  I  said;  "as  a  massive 
medallion,  depending  from  a  necklace.  It  certainly  would 
light  up  the  world  more,  on  the  bosom  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  than  thrust  away  here,  among  your  brushes  and 
razors.  But,  to  my  sense,  only  a  beauty  of  a  certain  type 
could  properly  wear  it — a  splendid,  dusky  beauty,  with  the 
brow  of  a  Roman  Empress,  and  the  shoulders  of  an  antique 
statue.  A  fair,  slender  girl,  with  blue  eyes,  and  sweet 
smile,  would  seem,  somehow,  to  be  overweighted  by  it,  and 
if  I  were  to  see  it  hung,  for  instance,  round  Miss  Wadding- 
ton's  white  neck,  I  should  feel  as  if  it  were  pulling  her  down 
to  the  ground,  and  giving  her  a  mysterious  pain." 

He  was  a  trifle  annoyed,  I  think,  by  this  rather  fine-spun 
objection;  but  he  smiled  as  he  closed  the  tray.  "Adina 
may  not  have  the  shoulders  of  the  Venus  of  Milo,"  he  said, 
"but  I  hope  it  will  take  more  than  a  bauble  like  this  to 
make  her  stoop." 

I  don't  always  go  to  church  on  Christmas  Day;  but  I 
have  a  life-long  habit  of  taking  a  solitary  walk,  in  all 
weathers,  and  harboring  Christian  thoughts  if  they  come. 
This  was  a  Southern  Christmas,  without  snow  on  the 
ground,  or  sleigh-bells  in  the  air,  or  the  smoke  of  crowded 
firesides  rising  into  a  cold,  blue  sky.  The  day  was  mild, 
and  almost  warm,  the  sky  gray  and  sunless.  If  I  was  dis- 
posed toward  Christmas  thoughts,  I  confess,  I  sought  them 
among  Pagan  memories.  I  strolled  about  the  forums,  and 
then  walked  along  to  the  Coliseum.  It  was  empty,  save 
for  a  single  figure,  sitting  on  the  steps  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross  in  the  center — a  young  man,  apparently,  leaning  for- 
ward, motionless,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands.  As  he  neither  stirred  nor  ob- 
served me  when  I  passed  near  him,  I  said  to  myself  that, 
brooding  there  so  intensely  in  the  shadow  of  the  sign  of 
redemption,  he  might  pass  for  an  image  of  youthful  remorse. 
Then,  as  he  never  moved,  I  wondered  whether  it  was  not 
a  deeper  passion  even  than  repentance.  Suddenly  he  looked 
up,  and  I  recognized  our  friend  Angelo — not  immediately, 


ADINA  241 

but  in  response  to  a  gradual  movement  of  recognition  in 
his  own  face.  But  seven  weeks  had  passed  since  our  meet- 
ing, and  yet  he  looked  three  years  older.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  he  had  lost  flesh,  and  gained  expression.  His  simple- 
souled  smile  was  gone;  there  was  no  trace  of  it  in  the  shy 
mistrust  of  his  greeting.  He  looked  graver,  manlier,  and 
very  much  less  rustic.  He  was  equipped  in  new  garments 
of  a  pretentious  pattern,  though  they  were  carelessly  worn, 
and  bespattered  with  mud.  I  remember  he  had  a  flaming 
orange  necktie,  which  harmonized  admirably  with  his  pic- 
turesque coloring.  Evidently  he  was  greatly  altered;  as 
much  altered  as  if  he  had  made  a  voyage  round  the  world. 
I  offered  him  my  hand,  and  asked  if  he  remembered  me. 

"Per  Dior  he  cried.  "With  good  reason."  Even  his 
voice  seemed  changed;  it  was  fuller  and  harsher.  He  bore 
us  a  grudge.  I  wondered  how  his  eyes  had  been  opened. 
He  fixed  them  on  me  with  a  dumb  reproachfulness,  which 
was  half  appealing  and  half  ominous.  He  had  been  brood- 
ing and  brooding  on  his  meager  bargain  till  the  sense  of 
wrong  had  become  a  kind  of  smothered  fear.  I  observed 
all  this  with  poignant  compassion,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that 
he  had  parted  with  something  more  precious  even  than 
his  imperial  intaglio.  He  had  lost  his  boyish  ignorance — 
that  pastoral  peace  of  mind  which  had  suffered  him  to 
doze  there  so  gracefully  with  his  head  among  the  flowers. 
But  even  in  his  resentment  he  was  simple  still.  "Where 
is  the  other  one — your  friend?"  he  asked. 

"He's  at  home— he's  still  in  Rome." 

"And  the  stone — what  has  he  done  with  it?" 

"Nothing. .  He  has  it  still." 

He  shook  his  head  dolefully.  "Will  he  give  it  back  to 
me  for  twenty-five  scudi?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.     He  values  it." 

"I  believe  so.     Will  he  let  me  see  it?" 

"That  you  must  ask  him.     He  shows  it  to  no  one." 

"He's  afraid  of  being  robbed,  eh?  That  proves  its  value! 
He  hasn't  shown  it  to  a  jeweler — to  a,  what  do  they  call 
them? — a  lapidary?" 

"To  no  one.     You  must  believe  me." 


242  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"But  he  has  cleaned  it,  and  polished  it,  and  discovered 
what  it  is?" 

"It's  very  old.     It's  hard  to  say." 

"Very  old!  Of  course  it's  old.  There  are  more  years 
in  it  than  it  brought  me  scudl.  What  does  it  look  like?! 
Is  it  red,  blue,  green,  yellow?" 

"Well,  my  friend,"  I  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"it's  yellow." 

He  gave  me  a  searching  stare;  then  quickly — "it's  what's 
called  a  topaz,"  he  cried. 

"Yes,  it's  what's  called  a  topaz." 

"And  it's  sculptured — that  I  could  see!  It's  an  intaglio. 
Oh,  I  know  the  names,  and  I've  paid  enough  for  my  learn- 
ing. What's  the  figure?  A  king's  head — or  a  Pope's,  per- 
haps, eh?  Or  the  portrait  of  some  beautiful  woman  that 
you  read  about?" 

"It  is  the  figure  of  an  Emperor." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"Tiberius." 

"Corpo  di  Cristo!"  his  face  flushed,  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  angry  tears. 

"Come,"  I  said,  "I  see  you're  sorry  to  have  parted  with 
the  stone.  Some  one  has  been  talking  to  you,  and  making 
you  discontented." 

"Every  one,  per  Dio!  Like  the  finished  fool  I  was,  I 
couldn't  keep  my  folly  to  myself.  I  went  home  with  my 
eleven  scudi,  thinking  I  should  never  see  the  end  of  them. 
The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  buy  a  gilt  hair-pin  from  a 
peddler,  and  give  it  to  Ninetta — a  young  girl  of  my  vil- 
lage, with  whom  I  had  a  friendship.  She  stuck  it  into 
her  braids,  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  then 
asked  how  I  had  suddenly  got  so  rich!  'Oh,  I'm  richer 
than  you  suppose/  said  I,  and  showed  her  my  money,  and 
told  her  the  story  of  the  stone.  She  is  a  very  clever  girl, 
and  it  would  take  a  knowing  fellow  to  have  the  last  word 
with  her.  She  laughed  in  my  face,  and  told  me  I  was  an 
idiot,  that  the  stone  was  surely  worth  five  hundred  scttdi; 
that  my  forestiere  was  a  pitiless  rascal;  that  I  ought  to 
have  brought  it  away,  and  showr  it  to  my  elders  and 


ADINA  243 

betters;  in  fine,  that  I  might  take  her  word  for  it,  I  had 
held  a  fortune  in  my  hand,  and  thrown  it  to  the  dogs. 
And,  to  wind  up  this  sweet  speech,  she  took  out  her  hairpin, 
and  tossed  it  into  my  face.  She  never  wished  to  see  me 
again;  she  had  as  lief  marry  a  blind  beggar  at  a  cross- 
road. What  was  I  to  say?  She  had  a  sister  who  was 
waiting-maid  to  a  fine  lady  in  Rome, — a  marchesa, — who 
had  a  priceless  necklace  made  of  fine  old  stones  picked  up 
on  the  Campagna.  I  went  away  hanging  my  head,  and 
cursing  my  folly:  I  flung  my  money  down  in  the  dirt,  and 
spat  upon  it!  At  last,  to  ease  my  spirit,  I  went  to  drink  a 
foglietta  at  the  wine-shop.  There  I  found  three  or  four 
young  fellows  I  knew;  I  treated  them  all  round;  I  hated 
my  money,  and  wanted  to  get  rid  of  it.  Of  course  they 
too  wanted  to  know  how  I  came  by  my  full  pockets.  I 
told  them  the  truth.  I  hoped  they  would  give  me  a  better 
account  of  things  than  that  vixen  of  a  Ninetta.  But  they 
knocked  their  glasses  on  the  table,  and  jeered  at  me  in 
chorus.  Any  donkey,  out  a-grazing,  if  he  had  turned  up 
such  a  treasure  with  his  nose,  would  have  taken  it  in  his 
teeth  and  brought  it  home  to  his  master.  This  was  cold 
comfort;  I  drowned  my  rage  in  wine.  I  emptied  one  flask 
after  another;  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  got  drunk. 
But  I  can't  speak  of  that  night!  The  next  day  I  took 
what  was  left  of  my  money  to  my  uncle,  and  told  him 
to  give  it  to  the  poor,  to  buy  new  candlesticks  for  his 
church,  or  to  say  masses  for  the  redemption  of  my  blasphem- 
ing soul.  He  looked  at  it  very  hard,  and  hoped  I  had 
come  by  it  honestly.  I  was  in  for  it;  I  told  him  too! 
He  listened  to  me  in  silence,  looking  at  me  over  his  specta- 
cles. When  I  had  done,  he  turned  over  the  money  in  his 
hands,  and  then  sat  for  three  minutes  with  his  eyes  closed. 
Suddenly  he  thrust  it  back  into  my  own  hands.  'Keep  it — 
keep  it,  my  son,'  he  said,  'your  wits  will  never  help  you  to 
a  supper,  make  the  most  of  what  you've  got!'  Since  then, 
do  you  see,  I've  been  in  a  fever.  I  can  think  of  nothing 
else  but  the  fortune  I've  lost." 

"Oh,  a  fortune!"  I  said,  deprecatingly.    "You  exagger- 
ate." 


244  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"It  would  have  been  a  fortune  to  me.  A  voice  keeps 
ringing  in  my  ear  night  and  day,  and  telling  me  I  could 
have  got  a  thousand  scudi  for  it." 

I'm  afraid  I  blushed;  I  turned  away  a  moment;  when 
I  looked  at  the  young  man  again,  his  face  had  kindled. 
"Tiberius,  eh?  A  Roman  emperor  sculptured  on  a  big 
topaz — that's  fortune  enough  for  me!  Your  friend's  a 
rascal — do  you  know  that?  I  don't  say  it  for  you;  I  like 
your  face,  and  I  believe  that,  if  you  can,  you'll  help  me. 
But  your  friend  is  an  ugly  little  monster.  I  don't  know 
why  the  devil  I  trusted  him;  I  saw  he  wished  me  no  good. 
Yet,  if  ever  there  was  a  harmless  fellow,  I  was.  Eccol  it's 
my  fate.  That's  very  well  to  say;  I  say  it  and  say  it, 
but  it  helps  me  no  more  than  an  empty  glass  helps  your 
thirst.  I'm  not  harmless  now.  If  I  meet  your  friend, 
and  he  refuses  me  justice,  I  won't  answer  for  these  two 
hands.  You  see — they're  strong;  I  could  easily  strangle 
him!  Oh,  at  first,  I  shall  speak  him  fair,  but  if  he  turns 
me  off,  and  answers  me  with  English  oaths,  I  shall  think 
only  of  my  revenge!"  And  with  a  passionate  gesture  he 
pulled  off  his  hat,  and  flung  it  on  the  ground,  and  stood 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

I  answered  him  briefly  but  kindly  enough.  I  told  him  to 
leave  his  case  in  my  hands,  go  back  to  Lariceia  and  try 
and  find  some  occupation  which  would  divert  him  from 
his  grievance.  I  confess  that  even  as  I  gave  this  respect- 
able advice,  I  but  half  believed  in  it.  It  was  none  of 
poor  Angelo's  mission  to  arrive  at  virtue  through  tribula- 
tion. His  indolent  nature,  active  only  in  immediate  feel- 
ing, would  have  found  my  prescription  of  wholesome  labor 
more  intolerable  even  than  his  wrong.  He  stared  gloomily 
and  made  no  answer,  but  he  saw  that  I  had  his  interests 
at  heart,  and  he  promised  me,  at  least,  to  leave  Rome,  and 
believe  that  I  would  fairly  plead  his  cause.  If  I  had 
good  news  for  him  I  was  to  address  him  at  Lariceia.  It  was 
thus  I  learned  his  full  name, — a  name,  certainly,  that  ought 
to  have  been  to  its  wearer  a  sort  of  talisman  against 
trouble, — Angelo  Beati. 


ADINA  245 

PART  n 

Sam  Scrope  looked  extremely  annoyed  when  I  began 
to  tell  him  of  my  encounter  with  our  friend,  and  I 
saw  there  was  still  a  cantankerous  something  in  the  depths 
of  his  heart  intensely  hostile  to  fairness.  It  was  character- 
istic of  his  peculiar  temper  that  his  happiness,  as  an  ac- 
cepted lover,  had  not  disposed  him  to  graceful  concessions. 
He  treated  his  bliss  as  his  own  private  property,  and  was 
as  little  in  the  humor  to  diffuse  its  influence  as  he  would 
have  been  to  send  out  in  charity  a  choice  dish  from  an 
unfinished  dinner.  Nevertheless,  I  think  he  might  have 
stiffly  admitted  that  there  was  a  grain  of  reason  in  Angelo's 
claim,  if  I  had  not  been  too  indiscreetly  accurate  in  my  re- 
port of  our  interview.  I  had  been  impressed,  indeed,  with 
something  picturesquely  tragic  in  the  poor  boy's  condition, 
and,  to  do  perfect  justice  to  the  picture,  I  told  him  he 
had  flung  down  his  hat  on  the  earth  as  a  gauntlet  of  de- 
fiance and  talked  about  his  revenge.  Scrope  hereupon 
looked  fiercely  disgusted  and  pronounced  him  a  theatrical 
jackanapes;  but  he  authorized  me  to  drop  him  a  line  say- 
ing that  he  would  speak  with  him  a  couple  of  days  later. 
I  was  surprised  at  Scrope's  consenting  to  see  him,  but  I 
perceived  that  he  was  making  a  conscientious  effort  to  shirk 
none  of  the  disagreeables  of  the  matter.  "I  won't  have 
him  stamping  and  shouting  in  the  house  here,"  he  said. 
"I'll  also  meet  him  at  the  Coliseum."  He  named  his  hour 
and  I  despatched  to  Lariceia  three  lines  of  incorrect  but 
courteous  Italian. 

It  was  better, — far  better, — that  they  should  not  have 
met.  What  passed  between  them  Scrope  requested  me  on 
his  return  to  excuse  him  from  repeating;  suffice  it  that 
Angelo  was  an  impudent  puppy,  and  that  he  hoped  never 
to  hear  of  him  again.  Had  Angelo,  at  last,  I  asked,  re- 
ceived any  compensation?  "Not  a  farthing!"  cried  Scrope, 
and  walked  out  of  the  room.  Evidently  the  two  young 
men  had  been  a  source  of  immitigable  offense  to  each  other. 
Angelo  had  promised  to  speak  to  him  fair,  and  I  inclined 
to  believe  had  done  so;  but  the  very  change  in  his  appear- 


246  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

ance,  by  seeming  to  challenge  my  companion's  sympathy 
in  too  peremptory  a  fashion,  had  had  the  irritating  effect 
of  a  menace.  Scrope  had  been  contemptuous,  and  his 
awkward,  .ungracious  Italian  had  doubtless  made  him  seem 
more  so.  One  can't  handle  Italians  with  contempt;  those 
who  know  them  have  learned  what  may  be  done  with  a 
moderate  amount  of  superficial  concession.  Angelo  had 
replied  in  wrath,  and,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  had  de- 
manded, as  a  right,  the  restitution  of  the  topaz  in  exchange 
for  the  sum  received  for  it.  Scrope  had  rejoined  that  if 
he  took  that  tone  he  should  get  nothing  at  all,  and  the  in- 
jured youth  had  retorted  with  reckless  and  insulting  threats. 
What  had  prevented  them  from  coming  to  blows,  I  know 
not,  no  sign  of  flinching,  certainly,  on  my  companion's  part. 
Face  to  face,  he  had  not  seemed  to  Angelo  so  easy  toi 
strangle,  and  that  saving  grain  of  discretion  which  mingles 
with  all  Italian  passion  had  whispered  to  the  young  man  to 
postpone  his  revenge.  Without  taking  a  melodramatic  view 
of  things,  it  seemed  to  me  that  Scrope  had  an  evil  chance 
in  waiting  for  him.  I  had,  perhaps,  no  definite  vision  of 
a  cloaked  assassin  lurking  under  a  dark  archway,  but  I 
thought  it  perfectly  possible  that  Angelo  might  make 
himself  intolerably  disagreeable.  His  simply  telling  his 
story  up  and  down  Rome  to  whomsoever  would  listen  to 
him,  might  be  a  grave  annoyance;  though  indeed  Scrope  had 
the  advantage  that  most  people  might  refuse  to  believe  in 
the  existence  of  a  gem  of  which  its  owner  was  so  little  in- 
clined to  boast.  The  whole  situation,  at  all  events,  made 
me  extremely  nervous.  I  cursed  my  companion  one  day 
for  a  hungrier  Jew  than  Shylock,  and  pitied  him  the  next 
as  the  victim  of  a  moral  hallucination.  If  we  gave  him 
time,  he  would  come  to  his  senses;  he  would  repay  poor 
Angelo  with  interest.  Meanwhile,  however,  I  could  do 
nothing,  for  I  felt  that  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  suggest 
to  Scrope  that  he  was  in  danger.  He  would  have  scorned 
the  idea  of  a  ranting  Italian  making  him  swerve  an  inch 
from  his  chosen  path. 

I  am  unable  to  say  whether  Angelo's  "imprudence"  had 
seemed  to  relieve  him,  generally,  from  his  vow  to  conceal 


ADINA  247 

the  intaglio;  a  few  words,  at  all  events,  from  Miss  Wadding- 
ton,  a  couple  of  evenings  later,  reminded  me  of  the  original 
reservation  he  had  made  to  the  vow.  Mrs.  Waddington 
was  at  the  piano,  deciphering  a  new  piece  of  music,  and 
Scrope,  who  was  fond  of  a  puzzle,  as  a  puzzle,  was  pre* 
tending,  half  jocosely,  to  superintend  and  correct  her. 
"I've  seen  it,"  Adina  said  to  me,  with  grave,  expanded  eyes; 
"I've  seen  the  wonderful  topaz.  He  says  you  are  in  the 
secret.  He  won't  tell  me  how  he  came  by  it.  Honestly,  I 
hope." 

I  tried  to  laugh.  "You  mustn't  investigate  too  closely 
the  honesty  of  hunters  for  antiquities.  It's  hardly  dis- 
honest in  their  code  to  treat  loose  cameos  and  snuff-boxes 
as  pickpockets  treat  purses." 

She  looked  at  me  in  shy  surprise,  as  if  I  had  made  a 
really  cruel  joke.  "He  says  that  I  must  wear  it  one  of 
these  days  as  a  medallion,"  she  went  on.  "But  I  shall 
not.  The  stone  is  beautiful,  but  I  should  feel  most  un- 
comfortable in  carrying  the  Emperor  Tiberius  so  near  my 
heart.  Wasn't  he  one  of  the  bad  Emperors — one  of  the 
worst?  It  is  almost  a  pollution  to  have  a  thing  that  he 
had  looked  at  and  touched  coming  to  one  in  such  direct 
descent.  His  image  almost  spoils  for  me  the  beauty  of  the 
stone  and  I'm  very  glad  Mr.  Srrope  keeps  it  out  of  sight." 
This  seemed  a  very  becoming  state  of  mind  in  a  blonde 
angel  of  New  England  origin. 

The  days  passed  by  and  Angelo's  "revenge"  still  hung 
fire.  Scrope  never  met  his  fate  at  a  short  turning  of  one 
of  the  dusky  Roman  streets;  he  came  in  punctually  every 
evening  at  eleven  o'clock.  I  wondered  whether  our  brood- 
ing friend  had  already  spent  the  sinister  force  of  a  nature 
formed  to  be  lazily  contented.  I  hoped  so,  but  I  was 
wrong.  We  had  gone  to  walk  one  afternoon, — the  ladies, 
Scrope  and  I, — in  the  charming  Villa  Borghese,  and,  to 
escape  from  the  rattle  of  the  fashionable  world  and  its  dis- 
traction, we  had  wandered  away  to  an  unfrequented  corner 
where  the  old  moldering  wall  and  the  slim  black  cypresses 
and  the  untrodden  grass  made,  beneath  the  splendid  Roman 
sky,  the  most  harmonious  of  pictures.  Of  course  there  was 


248  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

a  mossy  stone  hemicycle  not  far  off,  and  cracked  benches 
with  griffin's  feet,  where  one  might  sit  and  gossip  and  watch 
the  lizards  scamper  in  the  sun.  We  had  done  so  for  some 
half  an  hour  when  Adina  espied  the  first  violet  of  the  year 
glimmering  at  the  root  of  a  cypress.  She  made  haste  to 
rise  and  gather  it,  then  wandered  further,  in  the  hope  of 
giving  it  a  few  companions.  Scrope  sat  and  watched  her 
as  she  moved  slowly  away,  trailing  her  long  shadow  on  the 
grass  and  drooping  her  head  from  side  to  side  in  her  charm- 
ing quest.  It  was  not,  I  know,  that  he  felt  no  impulse  to 
join  her;  but  that  he  was  in  love,  for  the  moment,  with 
looking  at  her  from  where  he  sat.  Her  search  carried  her 
some  distance  and  at  last  she  passed  out  of  sight  behind 
a  bend  in  the  villa  wall.  Mrs.  Waddington  proposed  in  a 
few  moments  that  we  should  overtake  her,  and  we  moved 
forward.  We  had  not  advanced  many  paces  before  she 
re-appeared,  glancing  over  her  shoulder  as  she  came  towards 
us  with  an  air  of  suppressed  perturbation.  In  an  instant 
I  saw  she  was  being  followed;  a  man  was  close  behind  her 
—a  man  in  whom  my  second  glance  reconized  Angelo  Bead. 
Adina  was  pale;  something  had  evidently  passed  between 
them.  By  the  time  she  had  met  us,  we  were  also  face  to 
face  with  Angelo.  He  was  pale,  as  well,  and,  between 
these  two  pallors,  Scrope  had  flushed  crimson.  I  was 
afraid  of  an  explosion  and  stepped  toward  Angelo  to  avert 
it.  But  to  my  surprise,  he  was  evidently  following  another 
line.  He  turned  the  cloudy  brightness  of  his  eyes  upon 
each  of  us  and  poised  his  hand  in  the  air  as  if  to  say,  in 
answer  to  my  unspoken  charge — "Leave  me  alone,  I  know 
what  I  am  about.'7  I  exchanged  a  glance  with  Scrope, 
urging  him  to  pass  on  with  the  ladies  and  let  me  deal 
with  the  intruder.  Miss  Waddington  stopped;  she  was 
gazing  at  Angelo  with  soft  intentness.  Her  lover,  to  lead 
her  away,  grasped  her  arm  almost  rudely,  and  as  she  went 
with  him  I  saw  her  faintly  flushing.  Mrs.  Waddington, 
unsuspicious  of  evil,  saw  nothing  but  a  very  handsome 
young  man.  "What  a  beautiful  creature  for  a  sketch  1" 
I  heard  her  exclaim,  as  she  followed  her  step-daughter. 
"I'm  not  going  to  make  a  noise,"  said  Angelo,  with 


ADINA  249 

a  somber  smile;  "don't  be  frightened!  I  know  what  good 
manners  are.  These  three  weeks  now  that  I've  been  hang- 
ing about  Rome,  I've  learned  to  play  the  gentleman.  Who 
is  that  young  lady?" 

"My  dear  young  man,  it's  none  of  your  business.  I 
hope  you  had  not  the  hardihood  to  speak  to  her." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  after  her  as  she  retreated 
on  her  companion's  arm.  "Yes,  I  spoke  to  her— rand  she 
understood  me.  Keep  quiet;  I  said  nothing  she  mightn't 
hear.  But  such  as  it  was,  she  understood  it.  She's  your 
friend's  arnica ;  I  know  that.  I've  been  watching  you  for 
half  an  hour  from  behind  those  trees.  She  is  wonderfully 
beautiful.  Farewell;  I  wish  you  no  harm,  but  tell  your 
friend  I've  not  forgotten  him.  I'm  only  awaiting  my 
chance;  I  think  it  will  come.  I  don't  want  to  kill  him; 
I  want  to  give  him  some  hurt  that  he'll  survive  and  feel 
— forever!"  He  was  turning  away,  but  he  paused  and 
watched  my  companions  till  they  disappeared.  At  last — 
"He  has  more  than  his  share  of  good  luck,"  he  said,  with 
a  sort  of  forced  coldness.  "A  topaz — and  a  pearl!  both 
at  once!  Eh,  farewell!"  And  he  walked  rapidly  away, 
waving  his  hand.  I  let  him  go.  I  was  unsatisfied,  but  his 
unexpected  sobriety  left  me  nothing  to  say. 

When  a  startling  event  comes  to  pass,  we  are  apt  to 
waste  a  good  deal  of  time  in  trying  to  recollect  the  correct 
signs  and  portents  which  preceded  it,  and  when  they  seem 
fewer  than  they  should  be,  we  don't  scruple  to  imagine  them 
— we  invent  them  after  the  fact.  Therefore  it  is  that  I 
don't  pretend  to  be  sure  that  I  was  particularly  struck, 
from  this  time  forward,  with  something  strange  in  our  quiet 
Adina.  She  had  always  seemed  to  me  vaguely,  innocently 
strange;  it  was  part  of  her  charm  that  in  the  daily  noise- 
less movement  of  her  life  a  mystic  undertone  seemed  to 
murmur — "You  don't  half  know  me!"  Perhaps  we  three 
prosaic  mortals  were  not  quite  worthy  to  know  her;  yet 
I  believe  that  if  a  practised  man  of  the  world  had  whis- 
pered to  me,  one  day,  over  his  wine,  after  Miss  Waddington 
had  rustled  away  from  the  table,  that  there  was  a  young 
lady,  who,  sooner  or  later,  would  treat  her  friends  to  a  first 


250  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

class  surprise,  I  should  have  laid  my  finger  on  his  sleeve 
and  told  him  with  a  smile  that  he  phrased  my  own  thought. 
Was  she  more  silent  than  usual,  was  she  preoccupied,  was 
she  melancholy,  was  she  restless?  Picturesquely,  she  ought 
to  have  been  all  these  things;  but  in  fact,  she  was  still  to 
the  illumined  eye  simply  a  very  pretty  blonde  maiden,  who 
smiled  more  than  she  spoke,  and  accepted  her  lover's  devo- 
tion with  a  charming  demureness  which  savored  much  more 
of  humility  than  of  condescension.  It  seemed  to  me  useless 
to  repeat  to  Scrope  the  young  Italian's  declaration  that 
he  had  spoken  to  her,  and  poor  Sam  never  intimated  to 
me  either  that  he  had  questioned  her  in  suspicion  of  the 
fact,  or  that  she  had  offered  him  any  account  of  it.  I  was 
sure,  however,  that  something  must  have  passed  between  the 
young  girl  and  her  lover  in  the  way  of  question  and  answer, 
and  I  privately  wondered  what  the  deuce  Angelo  had  meant 
by  saying  she  had  understood  him.  What  had  she  under- 
stood? Surely  not  the  story  of  Scrope 's  acquisition  of  the 
gem;  for  granting — what  was  unlikely — that  Angelo  had 
had  time  to  impart  it,  it  was  unnatural  that  Adina  should 
not  have  frankly  demanded  an  explanation.  At  last  I  broke 
the  ice  and  asked  Scrope  if  he  supposed  Miss  Waddington 
had  reason  to  connect  the  great  intaglio  with  the  picturesque 
young  man  she  had  met  in  the  Villa  Borghese. 

My  question  caused  him  visible  discomfort.  "Pic- 
turesque?" he  growled.  "Did  she  tell  you  she  thought 
him  picturesque?" 

"By  no  means.  But  he  is!  You  must  at  least  allow 
him  that." 

"He  hadn't  brushed  his  hair  for  a  week — if  that's  what 
you  mean.  But  it's  a  charm  which  I  doubt  that  Adina 
appreciates.  But  she  has  certainly  taken,"  he  added  in  a 
moment,  "an  unaccountable  dislike  to  the  topaz.  She  says 
the  Emperor  Tiberius  spoils  it  for  her.  It's  carrying  his- 
torical antipathies  rather  far:  I  supposed  nothing  could 
spoil  a  fine  gem  for  a  pretty  woman.  It  appears,"  he 
finally  said,  "that  that  rascal  spoke  to  her." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  asked  her  if  she  was  engaged  to  me." 


ADINA  251 

"And  what  did  she  answer?" 

"Nothing." 

"I  suppose  she  was  frightened." 

"She  might  have  been;  but  she  says  she  was  not.  He 
begged  her  not  to  be;  he  told  her  he  was  a  poor  harmless 
fellow  looking  for  justice.  She  left  him,  without  speaking. 
I  told  her  he  was  crazy — it's  not  a  lie." 

"Possibly!"  I  rejoined.  Then,  as  a  last  attempt— "You 
know  it  wouldn't  be  quite  a  lie,"  I  added,  "to  say  that  you 
are  not  absolutely  sane.  You're  very  erratic,  about  the 
topaz;  obstinacy,  pushed  under  certain  circumstances  be- 
yond a  certain  point,  bears  a  dangerous  likeness  to  crazi- 
ness." 

I  suppose  that  if  one  could  reason  with  a  mule  it  would 
make  him  rather  more  mulish  to  know  one  called  him 
stubborn.  Scrope  gave  me  a  chilling  grin.  "I  deny  your 
circumstances.  If  I'm  mad,  I  claim  the  madman's  privilege 
of  believing  myself  peculiarly  sane.  If  you  wish  to  preach 
to  me,  you  must  catch  me  in  a  lucid  interval." 

The  breath  of  early  spring  in  Rome,  though  magical, 
as  you  know,  in  its  visible  influence  on  the  dark  old  city, 
is  often  rather  trying  to  the  foreign  constitution.  After  a 
fortnight  of  uninterrupted  sirocco,  Mrs.  Waddington's  fine 
spirits  confessed  to  depression.  She  was  afraid,  of  course, 
that  she  was  going  to  have  "the  fever,"  and  made  haste 
to  consult  a  physician.  He  reassured  her,  told  her  she 
simply  needed  change  of  air,  and  recommended  a  month 
at  Albano.  To  Albano,  accordingly,  the  two  ladies  repaired, 
under  Scrope's  escort.  Mrs.  Waddington  kindly  urged  my 
going  with  them;  but  I  was  detained  in  Rome  by  the  ar- 
rival of  some  relations  of  my  own,  for  whom  I  was  obliged 
to  play  cicerone.  I  could  only  promise  to  make  an  oc- 
casional visit  to  Albano.  My  uncle  and  his  three  daughters 
were  magnificent  sight-seers,  and  gave  me  plenty  to  do; 
nevertheless,  at  the  end  of  a  week  I  was  able  to  redeem 
my  promise.  I  found  my  friends  lodging  at  the  inn,  and 
the  two  ladies  doing  their  best  to  merge  the  sense  of  dirty 
stone  floors  and  crumpled  yellow  table-cloth  in  ecstatic 
contemplation,  from  their  windows,  of  the  great  misty  sea- 


252  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

like  level  of  the  Campagna.  The  view  apart,  they  were 
passing  delightful  days.  You  remember  the  loveliness  of 
the  place  and  its  picturesque  neighborhood  of  strange  old 
mountain  towns.  The  country  was  blooming  with  early 
flowers  and  foliage,  and  my  friends  lived  in  the  open  air. 
Mrs.  Waddington  sketched  in  water  colors.  Adina  gathered 
wild  nosegays,  and  Scrope  hovered  contentedly  between 
them — not  without  an  occasional  frank  stricture  on  the 
elder  lady's  use  of  her  pigments  and  Adina's  combinations 
of  narcissus  and  cyclamen.  All  seemed  to  me  very  happy 
and,  without  ill-nature,  I  felt  almost  tempted  to  wonder 
whether  the  most  desirable  gift  of  the  gods  is  not  a  thick- 
and-thin  conviction  of  one's  own  impeccability.  Yet  even 
a  lover  with  a  bad  conscience  might  be  cheated  into  a  dis- 
belief in  retribution  by  the  unbargained  sweetness  of  such 
a  presence  in  his  life  as  Adina  Waddington's. 

I  spent  the  night  at  Albano,  but  as  I  had  pledged  my- 
self to  go  the  next  morning  to  a  funzione  with  my  fair 
cousins  in  Rome, — "fair"  is  for  rhetoric;  but  they  were 
excellent  girls: — I  was  obliged  to  rise  and  start  at  dawn. 
Scrope  had  offered  to  go  with  me  part  of  the  way,  and  walk 
back  to  the  inn  before  breakfast;  but  I  declined  to  accept 
so  onerous  a  favor,  and  departed  alone,  in  the  early  twilight. 
A  rickety  diligence  made  the  transit  across  the  Campagna, 
and  I  had  a  five  minutes'  walk  to  the  post-office,  while  it 
stood  waiting  for  its  freight.  I  made  my  way  through  the 
little  garden  of  the  inn,  as  this  saved  me  some  steps.  At 
the  sound  of  my  tread  on  the  gravel,  a  figure  rose  slowly 
from  a  bench  at  the  foot  of  a  crippled  grim  statue,  and  I 
found  myself  staring  at  Angelo  Beati.  I  greeted  him  with 
an  exclamation,  which  was  virtually  a  challenge  of  his  right 
to  be  there.  He  stood  and  looked  at  me  fixedly,  with  a 
strangely  defiant,  unembarrassed  smile,  and  at  last,  in 
answer  to  my  repeated  inquiry  as  to  what  the  deuce  he 
was  about,  he  said  he  supposed  he  had  a  right  to  take 
a  stroll  in  a  neighbor's  garden. 

"A  neighbor?"  said  I.    "How ?" 

"Eh,  per  Dio!  don't  I  live  at  Lariceia?"    And  he  laughed 


ADINA  253 

in  almost  as  simple  a  fashion  as  when  we  had  awaked 
him  from  his  dreamless  sleep  in  the  meadows. 

I  had  had  so  many  other  demands  on  my  attention  dur- 
ing my  friend's  absence  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  that 
Scrope  had  lodged  himself  in  the  very  jaws  of  the  enemy. 
But  I  began  to  believe  that,  after  all,  the  enemy  was  very 
harmless.  If  Angelo  confined  his  machinations  to  sitting 
about  in  damp  gardens  at  malarial  hours,  Scrope  would  not 
be  the  first  to  suffer.  I  had  fancied  at  first  that  his  sense 
of  injury  had  made  a  man  of  him;  but  there  seemed  still 
to  hang  about  him  a  sort  of  a  romantic  ineffectiveness.  His 
painful  impulsion  toward  maturity  had  lasted  but  a  day 
and  he  had  become  again  an  irresponsible  lounger  in  Arcady. 
But  he  must  have  had  an  Arcadian  constitution  to  brave 
the  Roman  dews  at  that  rate.  "And  you  came  here  for  a 
purpose,"  I  said.  "It  ought  to  be  a  very  good  one  to  war- 
rant your  spending  your  nights  out  of  doors  in  this  silly 
fashion.  If  you  are  not  careful  you'll  get  the  fever  and 
die,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of  everything." 

He  seemed  grateful  for  my  interest  in  his  health.  "No, 
no,  Signorino  mio,  I'll  not  get  the  fever.  I've  a  fever  here" 
— and  he  struck  a  blow  on  his  breast — "that's  a  safeguard 
against  the  other.  I've  had  a  purpose  in  coming  here,  but 
you'll  never  guess  it.  Leave  me  alone;  I  shan't  harm  you! 
But  now,  that  day  is  beginning,  I  must  go;  I  must  not 
be  seen." 

I  grasped  him  by  the  arm,  looked  at  him  hard  and  tried 
to  penetrate  his  meaning.  He  met  my  eyes  frankly  and 
gave  a  little  contented  laugh.  Whatever  his  secret  was, 
he  was  not  ashamed  of  it;  I  saw  with  some  satisfaction 
that  it  was  teaching  him  patience.  Something  in  his  face, 
in  the  impression  it  gave  me  of  his  nature,  reassured 
me,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  contradicted  my  hypothesis 
of  a  moment  before.  There  was  no  evil  in  it  and  no 
malignity,  but  a  deep,  insistent,  natural  desire  which  seemed 
to  be  slumbering  for  the  time  in  a  mysterious  prevision 
of  success.  He  thought,  apparently,  that  his  face  was 
telling  too  much.  He  gave  another  little  laugh,  and  began 
to  whistle  softly.  "You  are  meant  for  something  better," 


254  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

I  said,  "than  to  skulk  about  here  like  a  burglar.  How 
would  you  like  to  go  to  America  and  do  some  honest  work?" 
I  had  an  absurd  momentary  vision  of  helping  him  on  his 
way,  and  giving  him  a  letter  of  introduction  to  my  brother- 
in-law,  who  was  in  the  hardware  business. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  passed  his  hand  through  his 
hair.  "You  think,  then,  I  am  meant  for  something  good?" 

"If  you  will!  If  you'll  give  up  your  idle  idea  of  're- 
venge' and  trust  to  time  to  right  your  wrong." 

"Give  it  up? — Impossible!"  he  said,  grimly.  "Ask  me 
rather  to  chop  off  my  arm.  This  is  the  same  thing.  It's 
part  of  my  life.  I  have  trusted  to  time — I've  waited  four 
long  months,  and  yet  here  I  stand  as  poor  and  helpless  as 
at  the  beginning.  No,  no,  I'm  not  to  be  treated  like  a 
dog.  If  he  had  been  just,  I  would  have  done  anything 
for  him.  I'm  not  a  bad  fellow;  I  never  had  an  unkind 
thought.  Very  likely  I  was  too  simple,  too  stupid,  too 
contented  with  being  poor  and  shabby.  The  Lord  does 
with  us  as  he  pleases;  he  thought  I  needed  a  little  shaking 
up.  I've  got  it,  surely!  But  did  your  friend  take  counsel 
of  the  Lord?  No,  no!  He  took  counsel  of  his  own  sel- 
fishness, and  he  thought  himself  clever  enough  to  steal  the 
sweet  and  never  taste  the  bitter.  But  the  bitter  will  come; 
and  it  will  be  my  sweet." 

"That's  fine  talk!  Tell  me  in  three  words  what  it 
means." 

"Aspetti! — If  you  are  going  to  Rome  by  the  coach,  as 
I  suppose,  you  should  be  moving.  You  may  lose  your  place. 
I  have  an  idea  we  shall  meet  again."  He  walked  away, 
and  in  a  moment  I  heard  the  great  iron  gate  of  the  garden 
creaking  on  its  iron  hinges. 

I  was  puzzled,  and  for  a  moment,  I  had  a  dozen  minds 
to  stop  over  with  my  friends.  But  on  the  one  hand,  I 
saw  no  definite  way  in  which  I  could  preserve  them  from 
annoyance;  and  on  the  other,  I  was  confidently  expected 
in  Rome.  Besides,  might  not  the  dusky  cloud  be  the 
sooner  dissipated  by  letting  Angelo's  project, — substance 
or  shadow,  whatever  it  was, — play  itself  out?  To  Rome 
accordingly  I  returned;  but  for  several  days  I  was 


ADINA  255 

haunted  with  a  suspicion  that  something  ugly,  something 
sad,  something  strange,  at  any  rate,  was  taking  place  at 
Albano.  At  last  it  became  so  oppressive  that  I  hired  a 
light  carriage  and  drove  back  again.  I  reached  the  inn 
toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon,  and  but  half  expected 
to  find  my  friends  at  home.  They  had  in  fact  gone  out  to 
walk,  and  the  landlord  had  not  noticed  in  what  direction. 
I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  stroll  about  the  dirty  little  town 
till  their  return.  Do  you  remember  the  Capuchin  convent 
at  the  edge  of  the  Alban  lake?  I  walked  up  to  it  and, 
seeing  the  door  of  the  church  still  open,  made  my  way  in. 
The  dusk  had  gathered  in  the  corners,  but  the  altar,  for 
some  pious  reason,  was  glowing  with  an  unusual  number  of 
candles.  They  twinkled  picturesquely  in  the  gloom;  here 
and  there  a  kneeling  figure  defined  itself  vaguely;  it  was  a 
pretty  piece  of  chiaroscuro,  and  I  sat  down  to  enjoy  it. 
Presently  I  noticed  the  look  of  intense  devotion  of  a  young 
woman  sitting  near  me.  Her  hands  were  clasped  on  her 
knees,  her  head  thrown  back  and  her  eyes  fixed  in  strange 
expansion  on  the  shining  altar.  We  make  out  pictures, 
you  know,  in  the  glow  of  the  hearth  at  home;  this  young 
girl  seemed  to  be  reading  an  ecstatic  vision  in  the  light  of 
the  tapers.  Her  expression  was  so  peculiar  that  for  some 
moments  it  disguised  her  face  and  left  me  to  perceive  with 
a  sudden  shock  that  I  was  watching  Adina  Waddington. 
I  looked  round  for  her  companions,  but  she  was  evidently 
alone.  It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I  had  no  right  to  watch 
her  covertly,  and  yet  I  was  indisposed  either  to  disturb  her 
or  to  retire  and  leave  her.  The  evening  was  approaching; 
how  came  it  that  she  was  unaccompanied?  I  concluded 
that  she  was  waiting  for  the  others;  Scrope,  perhaps,  had 
gone  in  to  see  the  sunset  from  the  terrace  of  the  convent 
garden — a  privilege  denied  to  ladies;  and  Mrs.  Waddington 
was  lingering  outside  the  church  to  take  memoranda  for  a 
sketch.  I  turned  away,  walked  round  the  church  and  ap- 
proached the  young  girl  on  the  other  side.  This  time  my 
nearness  aroused  her.  She  removed  her  eyes  from  the 
altar,  looked  at  me,  let  them  rest  on  my  face,  and  yet  gave 
no  sign  of  recognition.  But  at  last  she  slowly  rose  and  I 


256  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

saw  that  she  knew  me.  Was  she  turning  Catholic  and  pre- 
paring to  give  up  her  heretical  friends?  I  greeted  her, 
but  she  continued  to  look  at  me  with  intense  gravity,  as  if 
her  thoughts  were  urging  her  beyond  frivolous  civilities. 
She  seemed  not  in  the  least  flurried — as  I  had  feared  she 
would  be — at  having  been  observed;  she  was  preoccupied, 
excited,  in  a  deeper  fashion.  In  suspecting  that  something 
strange  was  happening  at  Albano,  apparently  I  was  not  far 
wrong — "What  are  you  doing,  my  dear  young  lady,"  I 
asked  brusquely,  "in  this  lonely  church?" 

"I'm  asking  for  light,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  youVe  found  it!"  I  answered  smiling. 

"I  think  so!"  and  she  moved  toward  the  door.  "I'm 
alone,"  she  added,  "will  you  take  me  home?"  She  ac- 
cepted my  arm  and  we  passed  out;  but  in  front  of  the 
church  she  paused.  "Tell  me,"  she  said  suddenly,  "are 
you  a  very  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Scrope's?" 

"You  must  ask  him."  I  answered,  "if  he  considers  me  so. 
I  at  least  aspire  to  the  honor."  The  intensity  of  her  man- 
ner embarrassed  me,  and  I  tried  to  take  refuge  in  jocosity. 

"Tell  me  then  this:  will  he  bear  a  disappointment — a  keen 
disappointment?" 

She  seemed  to  appeal  to  me  to  say  yes!  But  I  felt  that 
she  had  a  project  in  hand,  and  I  had  no  warrant  to  give 
her  a  license.  I  looked  at  her  a  moment;  her  solemn 
eyes  seemed  to  grow  and  grow  till  they  made  her  whole 
face  a  mute  entreaty.  "No,"  I  said  resolutely,  "decidedly 
not!" 

She  gave  a  heavy  sigh  and  we  walked  on.  She  seemed 
buried  in  her  thoughts!  she  gave  no  heed  to  my  attempts 
at  conversation,  and  I  had  to  wait  till  we  reached  the  inn 
for  an  explanation  of  her  solitary  visit  to  Capuccini.  Her 
companions  had  come  in,  and  from  them,  after  their  wel- 
come, I  learned  that  the  three  had  gone  out  together, 
but  that  Adina  had  presently  complained  of  fatigue,  and 
obtained  leave  to  go  home.  "If  I  break  down  on  the  way," 
she  had  said,  "I  will  go  into  a  church  to  rest."  They  had 
been  surprised  at  not  finding  her  at  the  inn,  and  were 
grateful  for  my  having  met  her.  Evidently,  they,  too, 


ADINA  257 

had  discovered  that  the  young  girl  was  in  a  singular  mood. 
Mrs.  Waddington  had  a  forced  smile,  and  Scrope  had  no 
smile  at  all.  Adina  quietly  sat  down  to  her  needlework, 
and  we  confessed,  even  tacitly,  to  no  suspicion  of  her  being 
"nervous."  Common  nervousness  it  certainly  was  not; 
she  bent  her  head  calmly  over  her  embroiderly,  and  drew 
her  stitches  with  a  hand  innocent  of  the  slightest  tremor. 
At  last  we  had  dinner;  it  passed  somewhat  oppressively, 
and  I  was  thankful  for  Scrope's  proposal,  afterwards,  to  go 
and  smoke  a  cigar  in  the  garden.  Poor  Scrope  was  unhappy; 
I  could  see  that,  but  I  hardly  ventured  to  hope  that  he 
would  tell  me  off-hand  what  was  the  matter  with  Adina. 
It  naturally  occurred  to  me  that  she  had  shown  a  disposi- 
tion to  retract  her  engagement.  I  gave  him  a  dozen  chances 
to  say  so,  but  he  evidently  could  not  trust  himself  to  utter 
his  fears.  To  give  an  impetus  to  our  conversation,  I  re- 
minded him  of  his  nearness  to  Lariceia,  and  asked  whether 
he  had  had  a  glimpse  of  Angelo  Bead. 

"Several,"  he  said.  "He  has  passed  me  in  the  village, 
or  on  the  roads,  some  half  a  dozen  times.  He  gives  me 
an  impudent  stare  and  goes  his  way.  He  takes  it  out  in 
looking  daggers  from  his  dark  eyes;  you  see  how  much 
there  is  to  be  feared  from  him!" 

"He  doesn't  quite  take  it  out,"  I  presently  said,  "in  look- 
ing daggers.  He  hangs  about  the  inn  at  night;  he  roams 
about  the  garden  while  you're  in  bed,  as  if  he  thought  that 
he  might  give  you  bad  dreams  by  staring  at  your  windows." 
And  I  described  our  recent  interview  at  dawn. 

Scrope  stared  in  great  surprise,  then  slowly  flushed  in 
rising  anger.  "Curse  the  meddling  idiot!"  he  cried.  "If 
he  doesn't  know  where  to  stop,  I'll  show  him." 

"Buy  him  off!"  I  said  sturdily. 

"I'll  buy  him  a  horsewhip  and  give  it  to  him  over  his 
broad  back!" 

I  put  my  hands  in  my  pockets,  I  believe,  and  strolled 
away,  whistling.  Come  what  might,  I  washed  my  hands 
of  mediation!  But  it  was  not  irritation,  for  I  felt  a  strange, 
half -reasoned  increase  of  pity  for  my  friend's  want  of 
pliancy.  He  stood  puffing  his  cigar  gloomily,  and  by 


258  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

way  of  showing  him  that  I  didn't  altogether  give  up,  I 
asked  him  at  last  whether  it  had  yet  been  settled  when  he 
should  marry.  He  had  told  me  shortly  before  that  this 
was  still  an  open  question,  and  that  Miss  Waddington 
preferred  to  leave  it  so. 

He  made  no  immediate  answer,  but  looked  at  me  hard. 
"Why  do  you  ask — just  now?" 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,  friendly  curiosity — "  I  began. 

He  tossed  the  end  of  his  cigar  nervously  upon  the  ground. 
"No,  no;  it's  not  friendly  curiosity!"  he  cried.  "You've 
noticed  something — you  suspect  something!" 

Since  he  insisted,  I  confessed  that  I  did.  "That  beauti- 
ful girl,"  I  said,  "seems  to  me  agitated  and  preoccupied; 
I  wondered  whether  you  had  been  having  a  quarrel." 

He  seemed  relieved  at  being  pressed  to  speak. 

"That  beautiful  girl  is  a  puzzle.  I  don't  know  what's  the 
matter  with  her;  it's  all  very  painful;  she's  a  very  strange 
creature.  I  never  dreamed  there  was  an  obstacle  to  our 
happiness — to  our  union.  She  has  never  protested  and 
promised;  it's  not  her  way,  nor  her  nature;  she  is  always 
humble,  passive,  gentle;  but  always  extremely  grateful  for 
every  sign  of  tenderness.  Till  within  three  or  four  days 
ago,  she  seemed  to  me  more  so  than  ever;  her  habitual 
gentleness  took  the  form  of  a  sort  of  shrinking,  almost 
suffering,  deprecation  of  my  attentions,  my  petits  soins, 
my  lover's  nonsense.  It  was  as  if  they  oppressed  and 
mortified  her — and  she  would  have  liked  me  to  bear  more 
lightly.  I  did  not  see  directly  that  it  was  not  the  excess  of 
my  devotion,  but  my  devotion  itself — the  very  fact  of  my 
love  and  her  engagement  that  pained  her.  When  I  did  it 
was  a  blow  in  the  face.  I  don't  know  what  under  heaven 
I've  done!  Women  are  fathomless  creatures.  And  yet 
Adina  is  not  capricious,  in  the  common  sense.  Mrs. 
Waddington  told  me  that  it  was  a  cgirl's  mood,'  that  we 
must  not  seem  to  heed  it — it  would  pass  over.  I've  been 
waiting,  but  the  situation  don't  mend;  you've  guessed  at 
trouble  without  a  hint.  So  these  are  peines  d'amour?"  he 
went  on,  after  brooding  a  moment.  "I  didn't  know  how 
fiercely  I  was  in  love!" 


ADINA  259 

I  don't  remember  with  what  well-meaning  foolishness 
I  was  going  to  attempt  to  console  him;  Mrs.  Waddington 
suddenly  appeared  and  drew  him  aside.  After  a  moment's 
murmured  talk  with  her,  he  went  rapidly  intc  the  house. 
She  remained  with  me  and,  as  she  seemed  greatly  per- 
plexed, and  we  had,  moreover,  often  discussed  our  com- 
panion's situation  and  prospects,  I  immediately  told  her 
that  Scrope  had  just  been  relating  his  present  troubles. 
"They  are  very  unexpected,"  she  cried.  "It's  thunder  in 
a  clear  sky.  Just  now  Adina  laid  down  her  work  and 
told  me  solemnly  that  she  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Scrope 
alone;  would  I  kindly  call  him?  'Would  she  kindly  tell 
me,'  I  inquired,  'what  in  common  sense  was  the  matter 
with  her,  and  what  she  proposed  to  say  to  him?  She 
looked  at  me  a  moment  as  if  I  were  a  child  of  five  years 
old  interrupting  family  prayers;  then  came  up  gently  and 
kissed  me,  and  said  I  would  know  everything  in  good 
time.  Does  she  mean  to  stand  there  in  that  same  ghostly 
fashion  and  tell  him  that,  on  the  whole,  she  has  decided 
not  to  marry  him?  What  has  the  poor  man  done?" 

"She  has  ceased  to  love  him,"  I  suggested. 

"Why  ceased,  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"Perhaps  it's  not  so  sudden  as  you  suppose.  Such  things 
have  happened,  in  young  women's  hearts,  as  a  gradual  re- 
vision of  a  first  impression." 

"Yes,  but  not  witLout  a  particular  motive — another 
fancy.  Adina  is  fanciful,  that  I  know;  with  all  respect  be 
it  said,  it  was  fanciful  to  accept  poor  Sam  to  begin  with. 
But  her  choice  deliberately  made,  what  has  put  her  out 
of  humor  with  it? — in  a  word  the  only  possible  explana- 
tion would  be  that  our  young  lady  has  transferred  her 
affections.  But  it's  impossible!" 

"Absolutely  so?"  I  asked. 

"Absolutely.  Judge  for  yourself.  To  whom,  pray? 
She  hasn't  seen  another  man  in  a  month.  Who  could  have 
so  mysUiously  charmed  her?  The  little  hunchback  who 
brings  us  mandarin  oranges  every  morning?  Perhaps  she 
has  lost  her  heart  to  Prince  Doria!  I  believe  he  has  been 
staying  at  his  villa  yonder." 


26o  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

I  found  no  smile  for  this  mild  sarcasm.  I  was  wonder- 
ing— wondering.  "Has  she  literally  seen  no  one  else?"  I 
asked  when  my  wonderings  left  me  breath. 

"I  can't  answer  for  whom  she  may  have  seen',  she's  not 
blind.  But  she  has  spoken  to  no  one  else,  nor  been  spoken 
to;  that's  very  certain.  Love  at  sight — at  sight  only — 
used  to  be  common  in  the  novels  I  devoured  when  I  was 
fifteen;  but  I  doubt  whether  it  exists  anywhere  else." 

I  had  a  question  on  my  tongue's  end,  but  I  hesitated 
some  time  to  risk  it.  I  debated  some  time  in  silence  and 
at  last  I  uttered  it,  with  a  prefatory  apology.  "On  which 
side  of  the  house  is  Adina's  room?" 

"Pray,  what  are  you  coming  to?"  said  my  companion. 
"On  this  side." 

"It  looks  into  the  garden?" 

"There  it  is  in  the  second  story." 

"Be  so  good which  one? 

"The  third  window — the  one  with  the  shutters  tied  back 
with  a  handkerchief." 

The  shutters  and  the  handkerchief  suddenly  acquired  a 
mysterious  fascination  for  me.  I  looked  at  them  for  some 
time,  and  when  I  glanced  back  at  my  companion  our  eyes 
met.  I  don't  know  what  she  thought — what  she  thought  I 
thought.  I  thought  it  might  be  out  of  a  novel — such  a 
thing  as  love  at  sight ;  such  a  thing  as  an  unspoken  dialogue, 
between  a  handsome  young  Italian  with  a  "wrong,"  in  a 
starlit  garden,  and  a  fanciful  western  maid  at  a  window. 
From  her  own  sudden  impression  Mrs.  Waddington  seemed 
slowly  to  recoil.  She  gathered  her  shawl  about  her,  shiv- 
ered, and  turned  towards  the  house.  "The  thing  to  do," 
I  said,  offering  her  my  arm,  "is  to  leave  Albano  to-morrow." 

On  the  inner  staircase  we  paused ;  Mrs.  Waddington  was 
loath  to  interrupt  Adina's  interview  with  Scrope.  While 
she  was  hesitating  whither  to  turn,  the  door  of  her  sitting- 
room  opened,  and  the  young  girl  passed  out.  Scrope  stood 
behind  her,  very  pale,  his  face  distorted  with  an  emotion 
he  was  determined  to  repress.  She  herself  was  pale,  but 
her  eyes  were  lighted  up  like  two  wind-blown  torches.  Meet- 
ing the  elder  lady,  she  stopped,  stood  for  a  moment,  look- 


ADINA  261 

ing  down  and  hesitating,  and  then  took  Mrs.  Waddington's 
two  hands  and  silently  kissed  her.  She  turned  to  me,  put 
out  her  hand,  and  said  "Good  night!"  I  shook  it,  I 
imagine,  with  sensible  ardor,  for  somehow,  I  was  deeply 
impressed.  There  was  a  nameless  force  in  the  girl,  before 
which  one  had  to  stand  back.  She  lingered  but  an  instant 
and  rapidly  disappeared  towards  her  room,  in  the  dusky 
corridor.  Mrs.  Waddington  laid  her  hand  kindly  upon 
Scrope's  arm  and  led  him  back  into  the  parlor.  He  evi- 
dently was  not  going  to  be  plaintive ;  his  pride  was  rankling 
and  burning,  and  it  seasoned  his  self-control. 

"Our  engagement  is  at  an  end,"  he  simply  said. 

Mrs.  Waddington  folded  her  hands.  "And  for  what 
reason?" 

"None." 

It  was  cruel,  certainly;  but  what  could  we  say?  Mrs. 
Waddington  sank  upon  the  sofa  and  gazed  at  the  poor 
fellow  in  mute,  motherly  compassion.  Her  large,  caressing 
pity  irritated  him;  he  took  up  a  book  and  sat  down  with 
his  back  to  her.  I  took  up  another,  but  I  couldn't  read; 
I  sat  noticing  that  he  never  turned  his  own  page.  Mrs. 
Waddington  at  last  transferred  her  gaze  uneasily,  appeal- 
ingly,  to  me;  she  moved  about  restlessly  in  her  place;  she 
was  trying  to  shape  my  vague  intimations  in  the  garden 
into  something  palpable  to  common  credulity.  I  could  give 
her  now  no  explanation  that  would  not  have  been  a  gratui- 
tous offense  to  Scrope.  But  I  felt  more  and  more  nervous; 
my  own  vague  previsions  oppressed  me.  I  flung  down  my 
book  at  last,  and  left  the  room.  In  the  corridor  Mrs. 
Waddington  overtook  me,  and  requested  me  to  tell  her 
what  I  meant  by  my  extraordinary  allusions  to — "in  plain 
English,"  she  said,  "to  an  intrigue." 

"It  would  be  needless,  and  it  would  be  painful,"  I  an- 
swered, "to  tell  you  now  and  here.  But  promise  me  to 
return  to  Rome  to-morrow.  There  we  can  take  breath 
and  talk." 

"Oh,  we  shall  bundle  off,  I  promise!"  she  cried.  And 
we  separated.  I  mounted  the  stairs  to  go  to  my  room; 
as  I  did  so  I  heard  her  dress  rustling  in  the  corridor, 


262  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

undecidedly.  Then  came  the  sound  of  a  knock;  she  had 
stopped  at  Adina's  door.  Involuntarily  I  paused  and 
listened.  There  was  a  silence,  and  then  another  knock; 
another  silence  and  a  third  knock;  after  tins,  despair- 
ing, apparently,  of  obtaining  admission,  she  moved  away, 
and  I  went  to  my  room.  It  was  useless  going  to  bed; 
I  knew  I  should  not  sleep.  I  stood  a  long  time  at  my 
open  window,  wondering  whether  I  had  anything  to  say 
to  Scrope.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  I  wandered  down 
into  the  garden  again,  and  strolled  through  all  the  alleys. 
They  were  empty,  and  there  was  a  light  in  Adina's  win- 
dow. No;  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  nothing  I  could 
bring  myself  to  say  to  Scrope,  but  that  he  should  leave 
Albano  the  next  day,  and  Rome  and  Italy  as  soon  after 
as  possible,  wait  a  year,  and  then  try  his  fortune  with  Miss 
Waddington  again.  Towards  morning,  I  did  sleep. 

Breakfast  was  served  in  Mrs.  Waddington 's  parlor,  and 
Scrope  appeared  punctually,  as  neatly  shaved  and  brushed 
as  if  he  were  still  under  tribute  to  a  pair  of  blue  eyes. 
He  really,  of  course,  felt  less  serene  than  he  looked.  It 
can  never  be  comfortable  to  meet  at  breakfast  the  young 
lady  who  has  rejected  you  over  night.  Mrs.  Waddington 
kept  us  waiting  some  time,  but  at  last  she  entered  with 
surprising  energy.  Her  comely  face  was  flushed  from 
brow  to  chin,  and  in  her  hand  she  clasped  a  crumpled  note. 
She  flung  herself  upon  the  sofa  and  burst  into  tears;  I 
had  only  time  to  turn  the  grinning  camenera  out  of  the 
room.  "She's  gone,  gone,  gone! "  she  cried,  among  her  sobs. 
"Oh,  the  crazy,  wicked,  ungrateful  girl!" 

Scrope,  of  course,  knew  no  more  than  a  tea-pot  what 
she  meant;  but  I  understood  her  more  promptly — and  yet 
I  believe  I  gave  a  long  whistle.  Scrope  stood  staring  at 
her  as  she  thrust  out  the  crumpled  note:  that  she  meant 
that  Adina — that  Adina  had  left  us  in  the  night — was  too 
large  a  horror  for  his  unprepared  sense.  His  dumb  amaze- 
ment was  an  almost  touching  sign  of  the  absence  of  a 
thought  which  could  have  injured  the  girl.  He  saw  by  my 
face  that  I  knew  something,  and  he  let  me  draw  the  note 
from  Mrs.  Waddington's  hand  and  read  it  aloud: 


ADINA  263 

Good-by  to  everything!  Think  me  crazy  if  you  will. 
I  could  never  explain.  Only  forget  me  and  believe  that  I 
am  happy,  happy,  happy!  Adina  Beati. 

I  laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder;  even  yet  he  seemed 
powerless  to  apprehend.  "Angelo  Beati,"  I  said  gravely, 
"has  at  last  taken  his  revenge!" 

"Angelo  Beati!"  he  cried.  "An  Italian  beggar!  It's  a 
lie!" 

I  shook  my  head  and  patted  his  shoulder.  "He  has 
insisted  on  payment.  He's  a  clever  fellow!" 

He  saw  that  I  knew,  and  slowly,  distractedly  he  answered 
with  a  burning  blush! 

It  was  a  most  extraordinary  occurrence;  we  had  ample 
time  to  say  so,  and  to  say  so  again,  and  yet  never  really 
to  understand  it.  Neither  of  my  companions  ever  saw  the 
young  girl  again;  Scrope  never  mentioned  her  but  once. 
He  went  about  for  a  week  in  absolute  silence;  when  at  last 
he  spoke  I  saw  that  the  fold  was  taken,  that  he  was  going 
to  be  a  professional  cynic  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  Mrs. 
Waddington  was  a  good-natured  woman,  as  I  have  said, 
and,  better  still,  she  was  a  just  woman.  But  I  assure  you, 
she  never  forgave  her  step-daughter.  In  after  years,  as  I 
grew  older,  I  took  an  increasing  satisfaction  in  having  as- 
sisted, as  they  say,  at  this  episode.  As  mere  action,  it 
seemed  to  me  really  superb,  and  in  judging  of  human  na- 
ture I  often  weighed  it  mentally  against  the  perpetual 
spectacle  of  strong  impulses  frittered  in  weakness  and  per- 
verted by  prudence.  There  has  been  no  prudence  here, 
certainly,  but  there  has  been  ardent,  full-blown,  positive 
passion.  We  see  the  one  every  day,  the  other  once  in  five 
years.  More  than  once  I  ventured  to  ventilate  this  heresy 
before  the  kindly  widow,  but  she  always  stopped  me  short, 
"The  thing  was  odious,"  she  said;  "I  thank  heaven  the 
girl's  father  did  not  live  to  see  it." 

We  didn't  finish  that  dismal  day  at  Albano,  but  returned 
in  the  evening  to  Rome.  Before  our  departure  I  had  an 
interview  with  the  Padre  Girolamo  of  Lariceia,  who  failed 
to  strike  me  as  the  holy  man  whom  his  nephew  had  de- 


264  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

scribed.  He  was  a  swarthy,  snuffy  little  old  priest,  with  a 
dishonest  eye — quite  capable,  I  believed,  of  teaching  his 
handsome  nephew  to  play  his  cards.  But  I  had  no  re- 
proaches to  waste  upon  him;  I  simply  wished  to  know 
whither  Angelo  had  taken  the  young  girl.  I  obtained  the 
information  with  difficulty  and  only  after  a  solemn  promise 
that  if  Adina  should  reiterate,  viva  voce,  to  a  person  dele- 
gated by  her  friends,  the  statement  that  she  was  happy, 
they  would  take  no  steps  to  recover  possession  of  her.  She 
was  in  Rome,  and  in  that  holy  city  they  should  leave  her. 
"Remember,"  said  the  Padre,  very  softly,  "that  she  is  of 
age,  and  her  own  mistress,  and  can  do  what  she  likes  with 
her  money; — she  has  a  good  deal  of  it,  eh?"  She  had 
less  than  he  thought,  but  evidently  the  Padre  knew  his 
ground.  It  was  he,  he  admitted,  who  had  united  the  young 
couple  in  marriage,  the  day  before;  the  ceremony  had 
taken  place  in  the  little  old  circular  church  on  the  hill,  at 
Albano,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  "You  see,  Signer," 
he  said,  slowly  rubbing  his  yellow  hands,  "she  had  taken 
a  great  fancy!"  I  gave  him  no  chance,  by  any  remark  of 
my  own,  to  remind  me  that  Angelo  had  a  grudge  to  satisfy, 
but  he  professed  the  assurance  that  his  nephew  was  the 
sweetest  fellow  in  the  world.  I  heard  and  departed  in 
silence;  my  curiosity,  at  least,  had  not  yet  done  with 
Angelo. 

Mrs.  Waddington,  also,  had  more  of  this  sentiment  than 
she  confessed  to;  her  kindness  wondered,  under  protest  of 
her  indignation,  how  on  earth  the  young  girl  was  living, 
and  whether  the  smells  on  her  staircase  were  very  bad  in- 
deed. It  was,  therefore,  at  her  tacit  request  that  I  repaired 
to  the  lodging  of  the  young  pair,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Piazza  Barberini.  The  quarters  were  modest,  but  they 
looked  into  the  quaint  old  gardens  of  the  Capuchin  Friars; 
and  in  the  way  of  smells,  I  observed  nothing  worse  than 
the  heavy  breath  of  a  great  bunch  of  pinks  in  a  green 
jug  on  the  window  sill.  Angelo  stood  there,  pulling  one 
of  the  pinks  to  pieces,  and  looking  quite  the  proper  hero 
of  his  romance.  He  eyed  me  shyly  and  a  trifle  coldly  at 
first,  as  if  he  were  prepared  to  stand  firm  against  a  possible 


ADINA  265 

blowing  up;  but  when  he  saw  that  I  chose  to  make  no 
allusions  whatever  to  the  past,  he  suffered  his  dark  brow 
to  betray  his  serene  contentment.  I  was  no  more  disposed 
than  I  had  been  a  week  before,  to  call  him  a  bad  fellow; 
but  he  was  a  mystery, — his  character  was  as  great  an 
enigma  as  the  method  of  his  courtship.  That  he  was  in 
love  I  don't  pretend  to  say;  but  I  think  he  had  already 
forgotten  how  his  happiness  had  come  to  him,  and  that 
he  was  basking  in  a  sort  of  primitive  natural  sensuous  de- 
light in  being  adored.  It  was  like  the  warm  sunshine,  or 
like  plenty  of  good  wine.  I  don't  believe  his  fortune  in 
the  least  surprised  him;  at  the  bottom  of  every  genuine 
Roman  heart, — even  if  it  beats  beneath  a  beggar's  rags, — 
you'll  find  an  ineradicable  belief  that  we  are  all  barbarians, 
and  made  to  pay  them  tribute.  He  was  welcome  to  all  his 
grotesque  superstitions,  but  what  sort  of  future  did  they 
promise  for  Adina?  I  asked  leave  to  speak  with  her;  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  said  she  was  free  to  choose,  and 
went  into  an  adjoining  room  with  my  proposal.  Her  choice 
apparently  was  difficult;  I  waited  some  time,  wondering 
how  she  would  look  on  the  other  side  of  the  ugly  chasm  she 
had  so  audaciously  leaped.  She  came  in  at  last,  and  I  imme- 
diately saw  that  she  was  vexed  by  my  visit.  She  wished 
to  utterly  forget  her  past.  She  was  pale  and  very  grave; 
she  seemed  to  wear  a  frigid  mask  of  reserve.  If  she  had 
seemed  to  me  a  singular  creature  before,  it  didn't  help  me 
to  understand  her  to  see  her  there,  beside  her  extraordinary 
husband.  My  eyes  went  from  one  to  the  other  and,  I 
suppose,  betrayed  my  reflections;  she  suddenly  begged  me 
to  inform  her  of  my  errand. 

"I  have  been  asked,"  I  said,  "to  inquire  whether  you  are 
contented.  Mrs.  Waddington  is  unwilling  to  leave  Rome 

while  there  is  a  chance  of  your "  I  hesitated  for  a  word, 

and  she  interrupted  me. 

"Of  my  repentance,  is  what  you  mean  to  say?"  She 
fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly 
raised  them.  "Mrs.  Waddington  may  leave  Rome,"  she 
said  softly.  I  turned  in  silence,  but  waited  a  moment  for 


266  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

some  slight  message  of  farewell.  "I  only  ask  to  be  for- 
gotten!" she  added,  seeing  me  stand. 

Love  is  said  to  be  par  excellence  the  egotistical  passion; 
if  so  Adina  was  far  gone.  "I  can't  promise  to  forget  you," 
I  said;  "you  and  my  friend  here  deserve  to  be  remem- 
bered!" 

She  turned  away;  Angelo  seemed  relieved  at  the  cessa- 
tion of  our  English.  He  opened  the  door  for  me,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  with  a  significant,  conscious  smile. 

"She's  happy,  eh?"  he  asked. 

"So  she  says!" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm.  "So  am  I! — She's  better 
than  the  topaz!" 

"You're  a  queer  fellow!"  I  cried;  and,  pushing  past 
him,  I  hurried  away. 

Mrs.  Waddington  gave  her  step-daughter  another  chance 
to  repent,  for  she  lingered  in  Rome  a  fortnight  more.  She 
was  disappointed  at  my  being  able  to  bring  her  no  informa- 
tion as  to  how  Adina  had  eluded  observation— how  she  had 
played  her  game  and  kept  her  secret.  My  own  belief  was 
that  there  had  been  a  very  small  amount  of  courtship,  and 
that  until  she  stole  out  of  the  house  the  morning  before 
her  flight,  to  meet  the  Padre  Girolamo  and  his  nephew  at 
the  church,  she  had  barely  heard  the  sound  of  her  lover's 
voice.  There  had  been  signs,  and  glances,  and  other  un- 
spoken vows,  two  or  three  notes,  perhaps.  Exactly  who 
Angelo  was,  and  what  had  originally  secured  for  us  the 
honor  of  his  attentions,  Mrs.  Waddington  never  learned; 
it  was  enough  for  her  that  he  was  a  friendless,  picturesque 
Italian.  Where  everything  was  a  painful  puzzle,  a  shade 
or  two,  more  or  less,  of  obscurity  hardly  mattered.  Scrope, 
of  course,  never  attempted  to  account  for  his  own  blind- 
ness, though  to  his  silent  thoughts  it  must  have  seemed 
bitterly  strange.  He  spoke  of  Adina,  as  I  said,  but  once. 

He  knew  by  instinct,  by  divination, — for  I  had  not  told 
him, — that  I  had  been  to  see  her,  and  late  on  the  evening 
following  my  visit,  he  proposed  to  me  to  take  a  stroll 
through  the  streets.  It  was  a  -soft,  damp  night,  with 
vague,  scattered  cloud  masses,  through  which  the  moon  was 


ADINA  -  267 

slowly  drifting.  A  warm  south  wind  had  found  its  way 
into  the  dusky  heart  of  the  city.  "Let  us  go  to  St.  Peter's," 
he  said,  "and  see  the  fountains  play  in  the  fitful  moon- 
shine." When  we  reached  the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo,  he 
paused  and  leaned  some  time  on  the  parapet,  looking  over 
into  the  Tiber.  At  last,  suddenly  raising  himself — "You've 
seen  her?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  she  was  happy." 

He  was  silent,  and  we  walked  on.  Half-way  over  the 
bridge  he  stopped  again  and  gazed  at  the  river.  Then  he 
drew  a  small  velvet  case  from  his  pocket,  opened  it,  and 
let  something  shine  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  the  beautiful, 
the  imperial,  the  baleful  topaz.  He  looked  at  me  and  I 
knew  what  his  look  meant.  It  made  my  heart  beat,  but 
I  did  not  say — no!  It  had  been  a  curse,  the  golden  gem, 
with  its  cruel  emblems;  let  it  return  to  the  moldering  under- 
world of  the  Roman  past!  I  shook  his  hand  firmly,  he 
stretched  out  the  other  and,  with  a  great  flourish,  tossed 
the  glittering  jewel  into  the  dusky  river.  There  it  lies! 
Some  day,  I  suppose,  they  will  dredge  the  Tiber  for 
treasures,  and,  possibly,  disinter  our  topaz,  and  recognize 
it.  But  who  will  guess  at  this  passionate  human  interlude 
to  its  burial  of  centuries? 


DE  GREY:  A  ROMANCE 


IT  was  the  year  1820,  and  Mrs.  De  Grey,  by  the  same 
token,  as  they  say  in  Ireland  (and,  for  that  matter,  out 
of  it),  had  reached  her  sixty-seventh  spring.  She  was, 
nevertheless,  still  a  handsome  woman,  and,  what  is  better 
yet,  still  an  amiable  woman.  The  untroubled,  unruffled 
course  of  her  life  had  left  as  few  wrinkles  on  her  temper 
as  on  her  face.  She  was  tall  and  full  of  person,  with  dark 
eyes  and  abundant  white  hair,  which  she  rolled  back  from 
her  forehead  over  a  cushion,  or  some  such  artifice. 
The  freshness  of  youth  and  health  had  by  no  means  faded 
out  of  her  cheeks,  nor  had  the  smile  of  her  imperturbable 
courtesy  expired  on  her  lips.  She  dressed,  as  became  a 
woman  of  her  age  and  a  widow,  in  black  garments,  but 
relieved  with  a  great  deal  of  white,  with  a  number  of  hand- 
some rings  on  her  fair  hands.  Frequently,  in  the  spring, 
she  wore  a  little  flower  or  a  sprig  of  green  leaves  in  the 
bosom  of  her  gown.  She  had  been  accused  of  receiving 
these  little  floral  ornaments  from  the  hands  of  Mr.  Herbert 
(of  whom  I  shall  have  more  to  say) ;  but  the  charge  is 
unfounded,  inasmuch  as  they  were  very  carefully  selected 
from  a  handful  cut  in  the  garden  by  her  maid. 

That  Mrs.  De  Grey  should  have  been  just  the  placid 
and  elegant  old  lady  that  she  was,  remained,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  at  large,  in  spite  of  an  abundance  of  a  certain 
sort  of  evidence  in  favor  of  such  a  result,  more  or  less  of 
a  puzzle  and  a  problem.  It  is  true,  that  every  one  who 
knew  anything  about  her  knew  that  she  had  enjoyed  great 
material  prosperity,  and  had  suffered  no  misfortunes.  She 
was  mistress  in  her  own  right  of  a  handsome  property  and 
a  handsome  house;  she  had  lost  her  husband,  indeed,  within 
a  year  after  marriage;  but,  as  the  late  George  De  Grey  had 

269 


270  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

been  of  a  sullen  and  brooding  humor, — to  that  degree,  in- 
deed, as  to  incur  the  suspicion  of  insanity, — her  loss,  leav- 
ing her  well  provided  for,  might  in  strictness  have  been 
acounted  a  gain.  Her  son,  moreover,  had  never  given  her 
a  moment's  trouble;  he  had  grown  up  a  charming  young 
man,  handsome,  witty,  and  wise;  he  was  a  model  of  filial 
devotion.  The  lady's  health  was  good;  she  had  half  a 
dozen  perfect  servants;  she  had  the  perpetual  company  of 
the  incomparable  Mr.  Herbert;  she  was  as  fine  a  figure  of 
an  elderly  woman  as  any  in  town;  she  might,  therefore, 
very  well  have  been  happy  and  have  looked  so.  On  the 
other  hand,  a  dozen  sensible  women  had  been  known  to 
declare  with  emphasis,  that  not  for  all  her  treasures  and 
her  felicity  would  they  have  consented  to  be  Mrs.  De  Grey. 
These  ladies  were,  of  course,  unable  to  give  a  logical  reason 
for  so  strong  an  aversion.  But  it  is  certain  that  there 
hung  over  Mrs.  De  Grey's  history  and  circumstances  a 
film,  as  it  were,  a  shadow  of  mystery,  which  struck  a  chill 
upon  imaginations  which  might  easily  have  been  kindled 
into  envy  of  her  good  fortune.  "She  lives  in  the  dark," 
some  one  had  said  of  her.  Close  observers  did  her  the 
honor  to  believe  that  there  was  a  secret  in  her  life,  but  of 
a  wholly  undefined  character.  Was  she  the  victim  of  some 
lurking  sorrow,  or  the  mistress  of  some  clandestine  joy? 
These  imputations,  we  may  easily  believe,  are  partially  ex- 
plained by  the  circumstance  that  she  was  a  Catholic,  and 
kept  a  priest  in  her  house.  The  unexplained  portion  might 
very  well,  moreover,  have  been  discredited  by  Mrs.  De 
Grey's  perfectly  candid  and  complacent  demeanor.  It  was 
certainly  hard  to  conceive,  in  talking  with  her,  to  what  part 
of  her  person  one  might  pin  a  mystery, — whether  on  her 
clear,  round  eyes  or  her  handsome,  benevolent  lips.  Let 
us  say,  then,  in  defiance  of  the  voice  of  society,  that  she 
was  no  tragedy  queen.  She  was  a  fine  woman,  a  dull 
woman,  a  perfect  gentlewoman.  She  had  taken  life,  as  she 
liked  a  cup  of  tea, — weak,  with  an  exquisite  aroma  and 
plenty  of  cream  and  sugar.  She  had  never  lost  her  temper, 
for  the  excellent  reason  that  she  had  none  to  lose.  She 
was  troubled  with  no  fears,  no  doubts,  no  scruples,  and 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  271 

blessed  with  no  sacred  certainties.  She  was  fond  of  her 
son,  of  the  church,  of  her  garden,  and  of  her  toilet.  She 
had  the  very  best  taste;  but,  morally,  one  may  say  that 
she  had  had  no  history. 

Mrs.  De  Grey  had  always  lived  in  seclusion;  for  a  couple 
of  years  previous  to  the  time  of  which  I  speak  she  had  lived 
in  solitude.  Her  son,  on  reaching  his  twenty-third  year, 
had  gone  to  Europe  for  a  long  visit,  in  pursuance  of  a  plan 
discussed  at  intervals  between  his  mother  and  Mr.  Herbert 
during  the  whole  course  of  his  boyhood.  They  had  made 
no  attempt  to  forecast  his  future  career,  or  to  prepare  him 
for  a  profession.  Strictly,  indeed,  he  was  at  liberty,  like 
his  late  father,  to  dispense  with  a  profession.  Not  that 
it  was  to  be  wished  that  he  should  take  his  father's  life  as 
an  example.  It  was  understood  by  the  world  at  large,  and, 
of  course,  by  Mrs.  De  Grey  and  her  companion  in  particu- 
lar, that  this  gentleman's  existence  had  been  blighted,  at  an 
early  period,  by  an  unhappy  love-affair;  and  it  was  notorious 
that,  in  consequence,  he  had  spent  the  few  years  of  his 
maturity  in  gloomy  idleness  and  dissipation.  Mrs.  De 
Grey,  whose  own  father  was  an  Englishman,  reduced  to 
poverty,  but  with  claims  to  high  gentility,  professed  her- 
self unable  to  understand  why  Paul  should  not  live  decently 
on  his  means.  Mr.  Herbert  declared  that  in  America,  in 
any  walk  of  life,  idleness  was  indecent;  and  that  he  hoped 
the  young  man  would — nominally  at  least — select  a  career. 
It  was  agreed  on  both  sides,  however,  that  there  was  no 
need  for  haste;  and  that  it  was  proper,  in  the  first  place,  he 
should  see  the  world.  The  world,  to  Mrs.  De  Grey,  was 
little  more  than  a  name;  but  to  Mr.  Herbert,  priest  as  he 
was,  it  was  a  vivid  reality.  Yet  he  felt  that  the  generous 
and  intelligent  youth  upon  whose  education  he  had  lavished 
all  the  treasures  of  his  tenderness  and  sagacity,  was  not 
unfitted,  either  by  nature  or  culture,  to  measure  his  sinews 
against  its  trials  and  temptations;  and  that  he  should  love 
him  the  better  for  coming  home  at  twenty-five  an  accom- 
plished gentleman  and  a  good  Catholic,  sobered  and  sea- 
soned by  experience,  sceptical  in  small  matters,  confident  in 
great,  and  richly  replete  with  good  stories.  When  he  came 


272  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

of  age,  Paul  received  his  walking-ticket,  as  they  say,  in 
the  shape  of  a  letter  of  credit  for  a  handsome  sum  on  cer- 
tain London  bankers.  But  the  young  man  pocketed  the 
letter,  and  remained  at  home,  poring  over  books,  lounging 
in  the  garden,  and  scribbling  heroic  verses.  At  the  end  of 
a  year,  he  plucked  up  a  little  ambition,  and  took  a  turn 
through  the  country,  travelling  much  of  the  way  on  horse- 
back. He  came  back  an  ardent  American,  and  felt  that 
he  might  go  abroad  without  danger.  During  his  absence 
in  Europe  he  had  written  home  innumerable  long  letters, — 
compositions  so  elaborate  (in  the  taste  of  that  day,  recent 
as  it  is,  and  so  delightful)  that,  between  their  pride  in  his 
epistolary  talent  and  their  longing  to  see  his  face,  his 
mother  and  his  ex-tutor  would  have  been  at  a  loss  to  deter- 
mine whether  he  gave  them  more  satisfaction  at  home  or 
abroad. 

With  his  departure  the  household  was  plunged  in  un- 
broken repose.  Mrs.  De  Grey  neither  went  out  nor  enter- 
tained company.  An  occasional  morning  call  was  the  only 
claim  made  upon  her  hospitality.  Mr.  Herbert,  who  was 
a  great  scholar,  spent  all  his  hours  in  study;  and  his 
patroness  sat  for  the  most  part  alone,  arrayed  with  a  per- 
fection of  neatness  which  there  was  no  one  to  admire  (un- 
less it  be  her  waiting-maid,  to  whom  it  remained  a  constant 
matter  of  awe),  reading  a  pious  book  or  knitting  under- 
garments for  the  orthodox  needy.  At  times,  indeed,  she 
wrote  long  letters  to  her  son, — the  contents  of  which  Mr. 
Herbert  found  it  hard  to  divine.  This  was  accounted  a 
dull  life  forty  years  ago;  now,  doubtless,  it  would  be  con- 
sidered no  life  at  all.  It  is  no  matter  of  wonder,  there- 
fore, that  finally,  one  April  morning,  in  her  sixty-seventh 
year,  as  I  have  said,  Mrs.  De  Grey  suddenly  began  to 
suspect  that  she  was  lonely.  Another  long  year,  at  least, 
was  to  come  and  go  before  Paul's  return.  After  meditating 
for  a  while  in  silence,  Mrs.  De  Grey  resolved  to  take  coun- 
sel with  Father  Herbert. 

This  gentleman,  an  Englishman  by  birth,  had  been  an 
intimate  friend  of  George  De  Grey,  who  had  made  his  ac- 
quaintance during  a  visit  to  Europe,  before  his  marriage. 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  273 

Mr.  Herbert  was  a  younger  son  of  an  excellent  Catholic 
family,  and  was  at  that  time  beginning,  on  small  resources, 
the  practice  of  the  law.  De  Grey  met  him  in  London,  and 
the  two  conceived  a  strong  mutual  sympathy.  Herbert  had 
neither  taste  for  his  profession  nor  apparent  ambition  of 
any  sort.  He  was,  moreover,  in  weak  health;  and  his 
friend  found  no  difficulty  in  persuading  him  to  accept  the 
place  of  travelling  companion  through  France  and  Italy. 
De  Grey  carried  a  very  long  purse,  and  was  a  most  liberal 
friend  and  patron;  and  the  two  young  men  accomplished 
their  progress  as  far  as  Venice  in  the  best  spirits  and  on 
the  best  terms.  But  in  Venice,  for  reasons  best  known  to 
themselves,  they  bitterly  and  irretrievably  quarrelled. 
Some  persons  said  it  was  over  a  card-table,  and  some  said 
it  was  about  a  woman.  At  all  events,  in  consequence, 
De  Grey  returned  to  America,  and  Herbert  repaired  to 
Rome.  He  obtained  admission  into  a  monastery,  studied 
theology,  and  finally  was  invested  with  priestly  orders.  In 
America,  in  his  thirty-third  year,  De  Grey  married  the  lady 
whom  I  have  described.  A  few  weeks  after  his  marriage 
he  wrote  to  Herbert,  expressing  a  vehement  desire  to  be 
reconciled.  Herbert  felt  that  the  letter  was  that  of  a  most 
unhappy  man;  he  had  already  forgiven  him;  he  pitied  him, 
and  after  a  short  delay  succeeded  in  obtaining  an  ecclesi- 
astical mission  to  the  United  States.  He  reached  New  York 
and  presented  himself  at  his  friend's  house,  which  from 
this  moment  became  his  home.  Mrs.  De  Grey  had  re- 
cently given  birth  to  a  son;  her  husband  was  confined  to 
his  room  by  illness,  reduced  to  a  shadow  of  his  former 
self  by  repeated  sensual  excesses.  He  survived  Herbert's 
arrival  but  a  couple  of  months;  and  after  his  death  the 
rumor  went  abroad  that  he  had  by  his  last  will  settled  a 
handsome  income  upon  the  priest,  on  condition  that  he 
would  continue  to  reside  with  his  widow,  and  take  the 
entire  charge  of  his  boy's  education. 

This  rumor  was  confirmed  by  the  event.  For  twenty- 
five  years,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  Herbert  had  lived 
under  Mrs.  De  Grey's  roof  as  her  friend  and  companion 
and  counsellor,  and  as  her  son's  tutor.  Once  reconciled 


274  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

to  his  friend,  he  had  gradually  dropped  his  priestly  char- 
acter. He  was  of  an  essentially  devout  temperament,  but 
he  craved  neither  parish  nor  pulpit.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  had  become  an  indefatigable  student.  His  late  friend 
had  bequeathed  to  him  a  valuable  library,  which  he  grad- 
ually enlarged.  His  passion  for  study,  however,  appeared 
singularly  disinterested,  inasmuch  as,  for  many  years,  his 
little  friend  Paul  was  the  sole  witness  and  receptacle  of 
his  learning.  It  is  true  that  he  composed  a  large  portion 
of  a  History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  America,  which, 
although  the  manuscript  exists,  has  never  seen,  and,  I 
suppose,  is  never  destined  to  see,  the  light.  It  is  in  the 
very  best  keeping,  for  it  contains  an  immense  array  of 
facts.  The  work  is  written,  not  from  a  sympathetic,  but 
from  a  strictly  respectful  point  of  view;  but  it  has  a  fatal 
defect, — it  lacks  unction. 

The  same  complaint  might  have  been  made  of  Father 
Herbert's  personal  character.  He  was  the  soul  of  polite- 
ness, but  it  was  a  cold  and  formal  courtesy.  When  he 
smiled,  it  was,  as  the  French  say,  with  the  end  of  his 
lips,  and  when  he  took  your  hand,  with  the  end  of  his 
fingers.  He  had  had  a  charming  face  in  his  younger  days, 
and  when  gentlemen  dressed  their  hair  with  powder,  his 
fine  black  eyes  must  must  have  produced  the  very  best 
effect.  But  he  had  lost  his  hair,  and  he  wore  on  his  naked 
crown  a  little  black  silk  cap.  Round  his  neck  he  had  a 
black  cravat  of  many  folds,  without  any  collar.  He  was 
short  and  slight,  with  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  and  a 
handsome  pair  of  hands. 

"If  it  were  not  for  a  sad  sign  to  the  contrary,"  said 
Mrs.  De  Grey,  in  pursuance  of  her  resolve  to  take  counsel 
of  her  friend,  "I  should  believe  I  am  growing  younger." 

"What  is  the  sign  to  the  contrary?"  asked  Herbert. 

"I'm  losing  my  eyes.  I  can't  see  to  read.  Suppose  I 
should  become  blind." 

"And  what  makes  you  suspect  that  you  are  growing 
young  again?" 

"I  feel  lonely.    I  lack  company.    I  miss  Paul." 

"You  will  have  Paul  back  in  a  year." 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  275 

"Yes;  but  in  the  mean  while  I  shall  be  miserable.  I 
wish  I  knew  some  nice  person  whom  I  might  ask  to 
stay  with  me." 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  companion, — some  poor  gentle- 
woman in  search  of  a  home?  She  would  read  to  you,  and 
talk  to  you." 

"No;  that  would  be  dreadful.  She  would  be  sure  to  be 
old  and  ugly.  I  should  like  someone  to  take  Paul's 
place, — some  one  young  and  fresh  like  him.  We're  all  so 
terribly  old,  in  the  house.  You're  at  least  seventy;  I'm 
sixty-five"  (Mrs.  De  Grey  was  pleased  to  say) ;  "Deborah 
is  sixty,  the  cook  and  coachman  are  fifty-five  apiece." 

"You  want  a  young  girl  then?" 

"Yes,  some  nice,  fresh  young  girl,  who  would  laugh 
once  in  a  while,  and  make  a  little  music, — a  little  sound  in 
the  house." 

"Well,"  said  Herbert,  after  reflecting  a  moment,  "you 
had  better  suit  yourself  before  Paul  comes  home.  You 
have  only  a  year." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  De  Grey;  "I  shouldn't  feel  myself 
obliged  to  turn  her  out  on  Paul's  account." 

Father  Herbert  looked  at  his  companion  with  a  penetrat- 
ing glance.  "Nevertheless,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "you 
know  what  I  mean." 

"O  yes,  I  know  what  you  mean, — and  you,  Father  Her- 
bert, know  what  I  think." 

"Yes,  madam,  and,  allow  me  to  add,  that  I  don't  greatly 
care.  Why  should  I?  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  you'll 
never  find  yourself  compelled  to  think  otherwise." 

"It  is  certain,"  said  Mrs.  De  Grey,  "that  Paul  has  had 
time  to  play  out  his  little  tragedy  a  dozen  times  over." 

"His  father,"  rejoined  Herbert,  gravely,  "was  twenty- 
six  years  old." 

At  these  words  Mrs.  De  Grey  looked  at  the  priest  with 
a  slight  frown  and  a  flushed  cheek.  But  he  took  no  pains 
to  meet  her  eyes,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  had  recovered, 
in  silence,  her  habitual  calmness. 

Within  a  week  after  this  conversation  Mrs.  De  Grey  ob- 
served at  church  two  persons  who  appeared  to  be  strangers 


276  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

in  the  congregation:  an  elderly  woman,  meanly  clad,  and 
evidently  in  ill  health,  but  with  a  great  refinement  of 
person  and  manner;  and  a  young  girl  whom  Mrs.  De  Grey 
took  for  her  daughter.  On  the  following  Sunday  she  again 
found  them  at  their  devotions,  and  was  forcibly  struck  by 
a  look  of  sadness  and  trouble  in  their  faces  and  attitude. 
On  the  third  Sunday  they  were  absent;  but  it  happened 
that  during  the  walk,  going  to  confession,  she  met  the 
young  girl,  pale,  alone,  and  dressed  in  mourning,  apparently 
just  leaving  the  confessional.  Something  in  her  gait  and 
aspect  assured  Mrs.  De  Grey  that  she  was  alone  in  the 
world,  friendless  and  helpless;  and  the  good  lady,  who 
at  times  was  acutely  sensible  of  her  own  isolation  in  society, 
felt  a  strong  and  sympathetic  prompting  to  speak  to  the 
stranger,  and  ask  the  secret  of  her  sorrow.  She  stopped 
her  before  she  left  the  church,  and,  addressing  her  with 
the  utmost  kindness,  succeeded  so  speedily  in  winning  her 
confidence  that  in  half  an  hour  she  was  in  possession  of  the 
young  girl's  entire  history.  She  had  just  lost  her  mother, 
and  she  found  herself  in  the  great  city  penniless,  and  all 
but  houseless.  They  were  from  the  South;  her  father  had 
been  an  officer  in  the  navy,  and  had  perished  at  sea,  two 
years  before.  Her  mother's  health  had  failed,  and  they 
had  come  to  New  York,  ill-advisedly  enough,  to  consult 
an  eminent  physician.  He  had  been  very  kind,  he  had 
taken  no  fees,  but  his  skill  had  been  applied  in  vain.  Their 
money  had  melted  away  in  other  directions, — for  food  and 
lodging  and  clothing.  There  had  been  enough  left  to 
give  the  poor  lady  a  decent  burial;  but  no  means  of  sup- 
port save  her  own  exertions  remained  for  the  young  girl. 
She  had  no  relatives  to  look  to,  but  she  professed  herself 
abundantly  willing  to  work.  "I  look  weak,"  she  said, 
"and  pale,  but  I'm  really  strong.  It's  only  that  I'm  tired, 
— and  sad.  I'm  ready  to  do  anything.  But  I  don't  know 
where  to  look."  She  had  lost  her  color  and  the  roundness 
and  elasticity  of  youth;  she  was  thin  and  ill-dressed;  but 
Mrs.  De  Grey  saw  that  at  her  best  she  must  be  properly 
a  very  pretty  creature,  and  that  she  was  evidently,  by 
rights,  a  charming  girl.  She  looked  at  the  elder  lady  with 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  277 

lustrous,  appealing  blue  eyes  from  under  the  hideous  black 
bonnet  in  which  her  masses  of  soft  light  hair  were  tucked 
away.  She  assured  her  that  she  had  received  a  very  good 
education,  and  that  she  played  on  the  piano-forte.  Mrs. 
De  Grey  fancied  her  divested  of  her  rusty  weeds,  and 
dressed  in  a  white  frock  and  a  blue  ribbon,  reading  aloud 
at  an  open  window,  or  touching  the  keys  of  her  old  not 
unmelodious  spinnet;  for  if  she  took  her  (as  she  mentally 
phrased  it)  Mrs.  De  Grey  was  resolved  that  she  would  not 
be  harassed  with  the  sight  of  her  black  garments.  It  was 
plain  that,  frightened  and  faint  and  nervous  as  she  was, 
the  poor  child  would  take  any  service  unconditionally. 
She  kissed  her  then  tenderly  within  the  sacred  precinct,  and 
led  her  away  to  her  carriage,  quite  forgetting  her  business 
with  her  confessor.  On  the  following  day  Margaret  Aldis 
(such  was  the  young  girl's  name)  was  transferred  in  the 
same  vehicle  to  Mrs.  De  Grey's  own  residence. 

This  edifice  was  demolished  some  years  ago,  and  the 
place  where  it  stood  forms  at  the  present  moment  the  very 
center  of  a  turbulent  thoroughfare.  But  at  the  period 
of  which  I  speak  it  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
with  as  vast  a  prospect  of  open  country  in  one  direction 
as  in  the  other  of  close-built  streets.  It  was  an  excellent 
old  mansion,  moreover,  in  the  best  taste  of  the  time,  with 
large  square  rooms  and  broad  halls  and  deep  windows, 
and,  above  all,  a  delightful  great  garden,  hedged  off  from 
the  road  by  walls  of  dense  verdure.  Here,  steeped  in 
repose  and  physical  comfort,  rescued  from  the  turbid  stream 
of  common  life,  and  placed  apart  in  the  glow  of  tempered 
sunshine,  valued,  esteemed,  caressed,  and  yet  feeling  that 
she  was  not  a  mere  passive  object  of  charity,  but  that  she 
was  doing  her  simple  utmost  to  requite  her  protectress, 
poor  Miss  Aldis  bloomed  and  flowered  afresh.  With  rest 
and  luxury  and  leisure,  her  natural  gayety  and  beauty 
came  back  to  her.  Her  beauty  was  not  dazzling,  indeed, 
nor  her  gayety  obtrusive;  but,  united,  they  were  the  flower 
of  girlish  grace.  She  still  retained  a  certain  tenuity  and 
fragility  of  aspect,  a  lightness  of  tread,  a  softness  of  voice, 
a  faintness  of  coloring,  which  suggested  an  intimate  ac- 


278  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

quaintance  with  suffering.  But  there  seemed  to  burn, 
nevertheless,  in  her  deep  blue  eyes  the  light  of  an  almost 
passionate  vitality;  and  there  sat  on  her  firm,  pale  lips  the 
utterance  of  a  determined,  devoted  will.  It  seemed  at 
times  as  if  she  gave  herself  up  with  a  sensuous,  reckless, 
half-thankless  freedom  to  the  mere  consciousness  of  security. 
It  was  evident  that  she  had  an  innate  love  of  luxury. 
She  would  sometimes  sit,  motionless,  for  hours,  with  her 
head  thrown  back,  and  her  eyes  slowly  wandering,  in  a 
silent  ecstasy  of  content.  At  these  times  Father  Herbert, 
who  had  observed  her  attentively  from  the  moment  of  her 
arrival  (for,  scholar  and  recluse  as  he  was,  he  had  not  lost 
the  faculty  of  appreciating  feminine  grace), — at  these  times 
the  old  priest  would  watch  her  covertly  and  marvel  at  the 
fantastic,  soulless  creature  whom  Mrs.  De  Grey  had  taken 
to  her  side.  One  evening,  after  a  prolonged  stupor  of  this 
sort,  hi  which  the  young  girl  had  neither  moved  nor  spoken, 
sitting  like  one  whose  soul  had  detached  itself  and  was 
wandering  through  space,  she  rose,  on  Mrs.  De  Grey's 
at  last  giving  her  an  order,  and  moved  forward  as  if  in 
compliance;  and  then,  suddenly  rushing  toward  the  old 
woman,  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and  buried  her  head  in  her 
lap  and  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  sobs.  Herbert,  who  had 
been  standing  by,  went  and  laid  one  hand  on  her  head, 
and  with  the  other  made  over  it  the  sign  of  the  cross,  in 
the  manner  of  a  benediction, — a  consecration  of  the  pas- 
sionate gratitude  which  had  finally  broken  out  into  utter- 
ance. From  this  moment  he  loved  her. 

Margaret  read  aloud  to  Mrs.  De  Grey,  and  on  Sunday 
evenings  sang  in  a  clear,  sweet  voice  the  chants  of  their 
Church,  and  occupied  herself  constantly  with  fine  needle- 
work, in  which  she  possessed  great  skill.  They  spent  the 
long  summer  mornings  together,  in  reading  and  work  and 
talk.  Margaret  told  her  companion  the  simple,  sad  details 
of  the  history  of  which  she  had  already  given  her  the  out- 
line; and  Mrs.  De  Grey,  who  found  it  natural  to  look  upon 
them  as  a  kind  of  practical  romance  organized  for  her 
entertainment,  made  her  repeat  them  over  a  dozen  times. 
Mrs.  De  Grey,  too,  honored  the  young  girl  with  a  recital 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  279 

of  her  own  biography,  which,  in  its  vast  vacuity,  produced 
upon  Margaret's  mind  a  vague  impression  of  grandeur. 
The  vacuity,  indeed,  was  relieved  by  the  figure  of  Paul, 
whom  Mrs.  De  Grey  never  grew  weary  of  describing,  and 
of  whom,  finally,  Margaret  grew  very  fond  of  thinking. 
She  listened  most  attentively  to  Mrs.  De  Grey's  eulogies 
of  her  son,  and  thought  it  a  great  pity  he  was  not  iat 
home.  And  then  she  began  to  long  for  his  return,  and 
then,  suddenly,  she  began  to  fear  it.  Perhaps  he  would 
dislike  her  being  in  the  house,  and  turn  her  out  of  doors. 
It  was  evident  that  his  mother  was  not  prepared  to  con- 
tradict him.  Perhaps — worse  still — he  would  marry  some 
foreign  woman,  and  bring  her  home,  and  she  would  turn 
wickedly  jealous  of  Margaret  (in  the  manner  of  foreign 
women).  De  Grey,  roaming  through  Europe,  took  for 
granted,  piously  enough,  that  he  was  never  absent  from  his 
good  mother's  thoughts;  but  he  remained  superbly  un- 
conscious of  the  dignity  which  he  had  usurped  in  the 
meditations  of  her  humble  companion.  Truly,  we  know 
where  our  lives  begin,  but  who  shall  say  where  they  end? 
Here  was  a  careless  young  gentleman  whose  existence  en- 
joyed a  perpetual  echo  in  the  soul  of  a  poor  girl  utterly 
unknown  to  him.  Mrs.  De  Grey  had  two  portraits  of  her 
son,  which,  of  course,  she  lost  no  time  in  exhibiting  to 
Margaret, — one  taken  in  his  boyhood,  with  brilliant  red 
hair  and  cheeks,  the  lad's  body  encased  in  a  bright  blue 
jacket,  and  his  neck  encircled  in  a  frill,  open  very  low; 
the  other,  executed  just  before  his  departure,  a  handsome 
young  man  in  a  buff  waistcoat,  clean  shaven,  with  an 
animated  countenance,  dark,  close-curling  auburn  hair,  and 
very  fine  eyes.  The  former  of  these  designs  Margaret 
thought  a  very  pretty  child;  but  to  the  other  the  poor  girl 
straightway  lost  her  heart, — the  more  easily  that  Mrs.  De 
Grey  assured  her,  that,  although  the  picture  was  handsome 
enough,  it  conveyed  but  the  faintest  idea  of  her  boy's 
adorable  flesh  and  blood.  In  a  couple  of  months  arrived 
a  long-expected  letter  from  Paul,  and  with  it  another  por- 
trait,— a  miniature,  painted  in  Paris  by  a  famous  artist. 
Here  Paul  appeared  a  far  more  elegant  figure  than  in  the 


28o  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

work  of  the  American  painter.  In  what  the  change  con- 
sisted it  was  hard  to  tell;  but  his  mother  declared  that  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  he  had  spent  two  years  in  the  best 
company  in  Europe. 

"Oh,  the  best  company!"  said  Father  Herbert,  who  knew 
the  force  of  this  term.  And,  smiling  a  moment  with  in- 
offensive scorn,  he  relapsed  into  his  wonted  gravity. 

"I  think  he  looks  very  sad,"  said  Margaret,  timidly. 

"Fiddlesticks!"  cried  Herbert,  impatiently.  "He  looks 
like  a  coxcomb.  Of  course,  it's  the  Frenchman's  fault," 
he  added,  more  gently.  "Why  on  earth  does  he  send  us 
his  picture  at  all?  It's  a  great  piece  of  impertinence.  Does 
he  think  we've  forgotten  him?  When  I  want  to  remember 
my  boy,  I  have  something  better  to  look  to  than  the  flaunt- 
ing bit  of  ivory." 

At  these  words  the  two  ladies  went  off,  carrying  the  por- 
trait with  them,  to  read  Paul's  letter  in  private.  It  was 
in  eight  pages,  and  Margaret  read  it  aloud.  Then,  when 
she  had  finished,  she  read  it  again;  and  in  the  evening 
she  read  it  once  more.  The  next  day,  Mrs.  De  Grey, 
taking  the  young  girl  quite  into  her  confidence,  brought 
out  a  large  packet  containing  his  earlier  letters,  and  Mar- 
garet spent  the  whole  morning  in  reading  them  over  aloud. 
That  evening  she  took  a  stroll  in  the  garden  alone, — the 
garden  in  which  he  had  played  as  a  boy,  and  lounged  and 
dreamed  as  a  young  man.  She  found  his  name — his  beauti- 
ful name — rudely  cut  on  a  wooden  bench.  Introduced,  as 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  by  his  letters,  into  the 
precincts  of  his  personality,  the  mystery  of  his  being,  the 
magic  circle  of  his  feelings  and  opinions  and  fancies;  wan- 
dering by  his  side,  unseen,  over  Europe,  and  treading,  un- 
heard, the  sounding  pavements  of  famous  churches  and 
palaces,  she  felt  that  she  tasted  for  the  first  time  of  the 
substance  and  sweetness  of  life.  Margaret  walked  about 
for  an  hour  in  the  starlight,  among  the  dusky,  perfumed 
alleys.  Mrs.  De  Grey,  feeling  unwell,  had  gone  to  her 
room.  The  young  girl  heard  the  far-off  hum  of  the  city 
slowly  decrease  and  expire,  and  then,  when  the  stillness 
of  the  night  was  unbroken,  she  came  back  into  the  parlor 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  28) 

across  the  long  window,  and  lit  one  of  the  great  silver 
candlesticks  that  decorated  the  ends  of  the  mantel.  She 
carried  it  to  the  wall  where  Mrs.  De  Grey  had  suspended 
her  son's  miniature,  having  first  inserted  it  in  an  immense 
gold  frame,  from  which  she  had  expelled  a  less  valued 
picture.  Margaret  felt  that  she  must  see  the  portrait 
before  she  went  to  bed.  There  was  a  certain  charm  and 
ravishment  in  beholding  it  privately  by  candlelight.  The 
wind  had  risen, — a  warm  west  wind, — and  the  long  white 
curtains  of  the  open  windows  swayed  and  bulged  in  the 
gloom  in  a  spectral  fashion.  Margaret  guarded  the  flame 
of  the  candle  with  her  hand,  and  gazed  at  the  polished 
surface  of  the  portrait,  warm  in  the  light,  beneath  its 
glittering  plate  of  glass.  What  an  immensity  of  life  and 
passion  was  concentrated  into  those  few  square  inches  of 
artificial  color!  The  young  man's  eyes  seemed  to  gaze  at 
her  with  a  look  of  profound  recognition.  They  held  her 
fascinated;  she  lingered  on  the  spot,  unable  to  move.  Sud- 
denly the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  rang  out  a  single  clear 
stroke.  Margaret  started  and  turned  about,  at  the  thought 
that  it  was  already  half  past  ten.  She  raised  her  candle 
aloft  to  look  at  the  dial-plate;  and  perceived  three  things: 
that  it  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  that  her  candle 
was  half  burnt  out,  and  that  some  one  was  watching  her 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Setting  down  her  light, 
she  recognized  Father  Herbert. 

"Well,  Miss  Aldis,"  he  said,  coming  into  the  light,  "what 
do  you  think  of  it?" 

Margaret  was  startled  and  confused,  but  not  abashed. 
"How  long  have  I  been  here?"  she  asked,  simply. 

"I  have  no  idea.  I  myself  have  been  here  half  an 
hour." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  not  to  disturb  me,"  said  Mar- 
garet, less  simply. 

"It  was  a  very  pretty  picture,"  said  Herbert. 

"Oh,  it's  beautiful!"  cried  the  young  girl,  casting  another 
glance  at  the  portrait  over  her  shoulder. 

The  old  man  smiled  sadly,  and  turned  away,  and  then, 


282  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

coming  back,  "How  do  you  like  our  young  man,  Miss 
Aldis?"  he  asked,  apparently  with  a  painful  effort. 

"I  think  he's  very  handsome,"  said  Margaret,  frankly. 

"He's  not  so  handsome  as  that,"  said  Herbert. 

"His  mother  says  he's  handsomer." 

"A  mother's  testimony  in  such  cases  is  worth  very  little. 
Paul  is  well  enough,  but  he's  no  miracle." 

"I  think  he  looks  sad,"  said  Margaret.  "His  mother 
says  he's  very  gay." 

"He  may  have  changed  vastly  within  two  years.  Do 
you  think,"  the  old  man  added,  after  a  pause,  "that  he  looks 
like  a  man  in  love?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Margaret,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  never 
saw  one." 

"Never?"  said  the  priest,  with  an  earnestness  which  sur- 
prised the  young  girl. 

She  blushed  a  little.    "Never,  Father  Herbert." 

The  priest's  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  with  a  strange 
intensity  of  expression.  "I  hope,  my  child,  you  never 
may,"  he  said,  solemnly. 

The  tone  of  his  voice  was  not  unkind,  but  it  seemed  to 
Margaret  as  if  there  were  something  cruel  and  chilling  in 
the  wish.  "Why  not  I  as  well  as  another?"  she  asked. 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "O,  it's  a  long 
story,"  he  said. 

The  summer  passed  away  and  flushed  into  autumn,  and 
the  autumn  slowly  faded,  and  finally  expired  in  the  cold 
embrace  of  December.  Mrs.  De  Grey  had  written  to  her 
son  of  her  having  taken  Margaret  into  her  service.  At 
this  time  came  a  letter  in  which  the  young  man  was  pleased 
to  express  his  satisfaction  at  this  measure.  "Present  my 
compliments  to  Miss  Aldis,"  he  wrote,  "and  assure  her  of 
my  gratitude  for  the  comfort  she  has  given  my  dear  mother, 
— of  which,  indeed,  I  hope  before  very  long  to  inform  her 
in  person."  In  writing  these  good-natured  words  Paul  De 
Grey  little  suspected  the  infinite  reverberation  they  were  to 
have  in  poor  Margaret's  heart.  A  month  later  arrived  a 
letter,  which  was  handed  to  Mrs.  De  Grey  at  breakfast. 
"You  will  have  received  my  letter  of  December  3d,"  it 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  283 

began  (a  letter  which  had  miscarried  and  failed  to  arrive), 
"and  will  have  formed  your  respective  opinions  of  its  con- 
tents." As  Mrs.  De  Grey  read  these  words,  Father  Her- 
bert looked  at  Margaret;  she  had  turned  pale.  "Favorable 
or  not,"  the  letter  continued,  "I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to 
bid  you  undo  them  again.  But  my  engagement  to  Miss  L. 
is  broken  off.  It  had  become  impossible.  As  I  made  no 
attempt  to  give  you  a  history  of  it,  or  to  set  forth  my 
motives,  so  I  shall  not  now  attempt  to  go  into  the  logic 
of  the  rupture.  But  it's  broken  clean  off,  I  assure  you. 
Amen."  And  the  letter  passed  to  other  matters,  leaving 
our  friends  sadly  perplexed.  They  awaited  the  arrival  of 
the  missing  letter;  but  all  in  vain;  it  never  came.  Mrs. 
De  Grey  immediately  wrote  to  her  son,  urgently  requesting 
an  explanation  of  the  events  to  which  he  had  referred.  His 
next  letter,  however,  contained  none  of  the  desired  informa- 
tion. Mrs.  De  Grey  repeated  her  request.  Whereupon 
Paul  wrote  that  he  would  tell  her  the  story  when  he  had 
reached  home.  He  hated  to  talk  about  it.  "Don't  be 
uneasy,  dear  mother,"  he  added;  "Heaven  has  insured  me 
against  a  relapse.  Miss  L.  died  three  weeks  ago  at  Naples." 
As  Mrs.  De  Grey  read  these  words,  she  laid  down  the  letter 
and  looked  at  Father  Herbert,  who  had  been  called  to  hear 
it.  His  pale  face  turned  ghastly  white,  and  he  returned 
the  old  woman's  gaze  with  compressed  lips  and  a  stony 
immobility  in  his  eyes.  Then,  suddenly,  a  fierce,  inarticulate 
cry  broke  from  his  throat,  and,  doubling  up  his  fist,  he 
brought  it  down  with  a  terrible  blow  on  the  table.  Mar- 
garet sat  watching  him,  amazed.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  seized 
her  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  her  on  his  neck. 

"My  child!  my  child!"  he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice,  "I 
have  always  loved  you!  I  have  been  harsh  and  cold  and 
crabbed.  I  was  fearful.  The  thunder  has  fallen!  Forgive 
me,  child.  I'm  myself  again."  Margaret,  frightened,  dis- 
engaged herself,  but  he  kept  her  hand.  "Poor  boy!"  he 
cried,  with  a  tremulous  sigh. 

Mrs.  De  Grey  sat  smelling  her  vinaigrette,  but  not  visibly 
discomposed.  "Poor  boy!"  she  repeated,  but  without  a 


284  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

sigh, — which  gave  the  words  an  ironical  sound. — "He  had 
ceased  to  care  for  her,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  madam!"  cried  the  priest,  "don't  blaspheme.  Go 
down  on  your  knees,  and  thank  God  that  we  have  been 
spared  that  hideous  sight!" 

Mystified  and  horrified,  Margaret  drew  her  hand  from 
his  grasp,  and  looked  with  wondering  eyes  at  Mrs.  De 
Grey.  She  smiled  faintly,  touched  her  forefinger  to  her 
forehead,  tapped  it,  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  shook  her 
head. 

From  counting  the  months  that  were  to  elapse  before 
Paul's  return,  our  friends  came  to  counting  the  weeks,  and 
then  the  days.  The  month  of  May  arrived;  Paul  had 
sailed  from  England.  At  this  time  Mrs.  De  Grey  opened 
her  son's  room,  and  caused  it  to  be  prepared  for  occupa- 
tion. The  contents  were  just  as  he  had  left  them;  she 
bade  Margaret  come  in  and  see  it.  Margaret  looked  at 
her  face  in  his  mirror,  and  sat  down  a  moment  on  his 
sofa,  and  examined  the  books  on  his  shelves.  They  seemed 
a  prodigious  array ;  they  were  in  several  languages,  and  gave 
a  deep  impression  of  their  owner's  attainments.  Over  the 
chimney  hung  a  small  sketch  in  pencil,  which  Margaret 
made  haste  to  inspect, — a  likeness  of  a  young  girl,  skil- 
fully enough  drawn.  The  original  had  apparently  been  very 
handsome,  in  the  dark  style;  and  in  the  corner  of  the 
sketch  was  written  the  artist's  name, — De  Grey.  Margaret 
looked  at  the  portrait  in  silence,  with  quickened  heartbeats. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Paul's?"  she  asked  at  last  of  her  com- 
panion. 

"It  belongs  to  Paul,"  said  Mrs.  De  Grey.  "He  used  to 
be  very  fond  of  it,  and  insisted  upon  hanging  it  there.  His 
father  sketched  it  before  our  marriage." 

Margaret  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  "And  who  is  the 
lady?"  she  asked. 

"I  hardly  know.  Some  foreign  person,  I  think,  that  Mr. 
De  Grey  had  been  struck  with.  There's  something  about 
her  in  the  other  corner." 

In  effect,  Margaret  detected  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
sketch,  written  in  minute  character,  the  word  "obiit,  1786." 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  285 

"You  don't  know  Latin,  I  take  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
De  Grey,  as  Margaret  read  the  inscription.  "It  means 
that  she  died  thirty-four  good  years  ago." 

"Poor  girl!"  said  Margaret,  softly.  As  they  were  leaving 
the  room,  she  lingered  on  the  threshold  and  looked  about 
her,  wishing  that  she  might  leave  some  little  memento 
of  her  visit.  "If  we  knew  just  when  he  would  arrive,"  she 
said,  "I  would  put  some  flowers  on  his  table.  But  they 
might  fade." 

As  Mrs.  De  Grey  assured  her  that  the  moment  of  his 
arrival  was  quite  uncertain,  she  left  her  fancied  nosegay 
uncut,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  a  delightful  tremor 
of  anticipation,  ready  to  see  the  dazzling  figure  of  a  young 
man,  equipped  with  strange  foreign  splendor,  start  up 
before  her  and  look  at  her  in  cold  surprise,  and  hurry  past 
her  in  search  of  his  mother.  At  every  sound  of  footsteps 
or  of  an  opening  door  she  laid  down  her  work,  and  listened 
curiously.  In  the  evening,  as  if  by  a  common  instinct  of 
expectancy,  Father  Herbert  met  Mrs.  De  Grey  in  the  front 
drawing-room, — an  apartment  devoted  exclusively  to  those 
festivities  which  never  occurred  in  the  annals  of  this  tranquil 
household. 

"A  year  ago  to-day,  madam,"  said  Margaret,  as  they  all 
sat  silent  among  the  gathering  shadows,  "I  came  into  your 
house.  To-day  ends  a  very  happy  year." 

"Let  us  hope,"  said  Father  Herbert,  sententiously,  "that 
to-morrow  will  begin  another." 

"Ah,  my  dear  lady!"  cried  Margaret,  with  emotion;  "my 
good  father, — my  only  friends, — what  harm  can  come  to 
me  with  you?  It  was  you  who  rescued  me  from  harm." 
Her  heart  was  swollen  with  gratitude,  and  her  eyes  with 
rising  tears.  She  gave  a  long  shudder  at  the  thought  of 
the  life  that  might  have  been  her  fate.  But,  feeling  a 
natural  indisposition  to  obtrude  her  peculiar  sensations  up- 
on the  attention  of  persons  so  devoutly  absorbed  in  the 
thought  of  a  coming  joy,  she  left  her  place,  and  wan- 
dered away  into  the  garden.  Before  many  minutes,  a  little 
gate  opened  in  the  paling,  not  six  yards  from  where  she 
stood.  A  man  came  in,  whom,  in  the  dim  light,  she  knew 


286  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

to  be  Paul  De  Grey.  Approaching  her  rapidly,  he  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  greet  her,  but  stopped  suddenly,  and 
removed  his  hat. 

"Ah,  you're  Miss — the  young  lady,"  he  said. 

He  had  forgotten  her  name.  This  was  something  other, 
something  less  felicitous,  than  the  cold  surprise  of  the 
figure  in  Margaret's  vision.  Nevertheless,  she  answered 
him,  audibly  enough:  "They  are  in  the  drawing-room; 
they  expect  you." 

He  bounded  along  the  path,  and  entered  the  house.  She 
followed  him  slowly  to  the  window,  and  stood  without, 
listening.  The  silence  of  the  young  man's  welcome  told 
of  its  warmth. 

Paul  De  Grey  had  made  good  use  of  his  sojourn  in 
Europe;  he  had  lost  none  of  his  old  merits,  and  had  gained 
a  number  of  new  ones.  He  was  by  nature  and  culture  an 
intelligent,  amiable,  accomplished  fellow.  It  was  his  for- 
tune to  possess  a  peculiar,  indefinable  charm  of  person  and 
manner.  He  was  tall  and  slight  of  structure,  but  compact, 
firm,  and  active,  with  a  clear,  fair  complexion,  an  open, 
prominent  brow,  crisp  auburn  hair,  and  eyes — a  glance,  a 
smile — radiant  with  youth  and  intellect.  His  address  was 
frank,  manly,  and  direct;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  Margaret 
that  his  bearing  was  marked  by  a  certain  dignity  and 
elegance — at  times  even  verging  upon  formalism — which 
distinguished  it  from  that  of  other  men.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, that  she  detected  in  his  character  any  signs  of  that 
strange  principle  of  melancholy  which  had  exerted  so  power- 
ful an  action  upon  the  other  members  of  the  household  (and, 
from  what  she  was  able  to  gather,  on  his  father).  She 
fancied,  on  the  contrary,  that  she  had  never  known  less 
levity  associated  with  a  more  exquisite  mirth.  If  Margaret 
had  been  of  a  more  analytical  turn  of  mind,  she  would  have 
told  herself  that  Paul  De  Grey's  nature  was  eminently 
aristocratic.  But  the  young  girl  contented  herself  with 
understanding  it  less,  and  secretly  loving  it  more;  and  when 
she  was  in  want  of  an  epithet,  she  chose  a  simpler  term. 
Paul  was  like  a  ray  of  splendid  sunshine  in  the  dull,  color- 
less lives  of  the  two  women;  he  filled  the  house  with  light 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  287 

and  heat  and  joy.  He  moved,  to  Margaret's  fancy,  in  a 
circle  of  almost  supernatural  glory.  His  words,  as  they  fell 
from  his  lips,  seemed  diamonds  and  pearls;  and,  in  truth, 
his  conversation,  for  a  month  after  his  return,  was  in  the 
last  degree  delightful.  Mrs.  De  Grey's  house  was  par 
excellence  the  abode  of  leisure, — a  castle  of  indolence;  and 
Paul  in  talking,  and  his  companions  in  listening,  were  con- 
scious of  no  jealous  stress  of  sordid  duties.  The  summer 
days  were  long,  and  Paul's  daily  fund  of  loquacity  was  in- 
exhaustible. A  week  after  his  arrival,  after  breakfast, 
Father  Herbert  contracted  the  habit  of  carrying  him  off 
to  his  study,  and  Margaret,  passing  the  half-open  door, 
would  hear  the  changeful  music  of  his  voice.  She  begrudged 
the  old  man,  at  these  times,  the  exclusive  enjoyment  of  so 
much  eloquence.  She  felt  that  with  his  tutor,  Paul's  talk 
was  far  wiser  and  richer  than  it  was  possible  it  should  be 
with  two  simple-minded  women;  and  the  young  girl  had  a 
pious  longing  to  hear  him,  to  see  him,  at  his  best.  A  bril- 
liant best  it  was  to  Father  Herbert's  mind;  for  Paul  had 
surpassed  his  fondest  hopes.  He  had  amassed  such  a  store 
of  knowledge;  he  had  learned  all  the  good  that  the  old  man 
had  enjoined  upon  him;  and,  although  he  had  not  wholly 
ignored  the  evil  against  which  the  priest  had  warned  him, 
he  judged  it  so  wisely  and  wittily!  Women  and  priests, 
as  a  general  thing,  like  a  man  none  the  less  for  not  being 
utterly  innocent.  Father  Herbert  took  an  unutterable  satis- 
faction in  the  happy  development  of  Paul's  character.  He 
was  more  than  the  son  of  his  loins:  he  was  the  child  of 
his  intellect,  his  patience,  and  devotion. 

The  afternoons  and  evenings  Paul  was  free  to  devote 
to  his  mother,  who,  out  of  her  own  room,  never  dispensed 
for  an  hour  with  Margaret's  attendance.  This,  thanks  to 
the  young  girl's  delicate  tact  and  sympathy,  had  now  be- 
come an  absolute  necessity.  Margaret  sat  by  with  her 
work,  while  Paul  talked,  and  marvelled  at  his  inexhaustible 
stock  of  gossip  and  anecdote  and  forcible,  vivid  description. 
He  made  cities  and  churches  and  galleries  and  playhouses 
swarm  and  shine  before  her  enchanted  senses,  and  repro- 
duced the  people  he  had  met  and  the  scenery  through  which 


288  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

he  had  travelled,  until  the  young  girl's  head  turned  at  the 
rapid  succession  of  images  and  pictures.  And  then,  at 
times,  he  would  seem  to  grow  weary,  and  would  sink  into 
silence;  and  Margaret,  looking  up  askance  from  her  work, 
would  see  his  eyes  absently  fixed,  and  a  faint  smile  on  his 
face,  or  else  a  cold  gravity,  and  she  would  wonder  what  far- 
off  memory  had  called  back  his  thoughts  to  that  unknown 
European  world.  Sometimes,  less  frequently,  when  she 
raised  her  eyes,  she  found  him  watching  her  own  figure,  her 
bent  head,  and  the  busy  movement  of  her  hands.  But  (as 
yet,  at  least)  he  never  turned  away  his  glance  in  con- 
fusion; he  let  his  eyes  rest,  and  justified  his  scrutiny  by 
some  simple  and  natural  remark. 

But  as  the  weeks  passed  by,  and  the  summer  grew  to  its 
fulness,  Mrs.  De  Grey  contracted  the  habit  of  going  after 
dinner  to  her  own  room,  where,  we  may  respectfully  con- 
jecture, she  passed  the  afternoon  in  dishabille  and  slumber. 
But  De  Grey  and  Miss  Aldis  tacitly  agreed  together  that, 
in  the  prime  and  springtime  of  life,  it  was  stupid  folly  to 
waste  in  any  such  fashion  the  longest  and  brightest  hours 
of  the  year;  and  so  they,  on  their  side,  contracted  the  habit 
of  sitting  in  the  darkened  drawing-room,  and  gossiping 
away  the  time  until  within  an  hour  of  tea.  Sometimes,  for  a 
change,  they  went  across  the  garden  into  a  sort  of  summer- 
house,  which  occupied  a  central  point  in  the  enclosure,  and 
stood  with  its  face  averted  from  the  mansion,  and  looking  to 
the  north,  and  with  its  sides  covered  with  dense,  clustering 
vines.  Within,  against  the  wall,  was  a  deep  garden  bench, 
and  in  the  middle  a  table,  upon  which  Margaret  placed  her 
work-basket,  and  the  young  man  the  book,  which,  under  the 
pretence  of  meaning  to  read,  he  usually  carried  in  his 
hand.  Within  was  coolness  and  deep  shade  and  silence, 
and  without  the  broad  glare  of  the  immense  summer  sky. 
When  I  say  there  was  silence,  I  mean  that  there  was  nothing 
to  interrupt  the  conversation  of  these  happy  idlers.  Their 
talk  speedily  assumed  that  desultory,  volatile  character, 
which  is  the  sign  of  great  intimacy.  Margaret  found  oc- 
casion to  ask  Paul  a  great  many  questions  which  she  had 
not  felt  at  liberty  to  ask  in  the  presence  of  his  mother, 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  289 

and  to  demand  additional  light  upon  a  variety  of  little 
points  which  Mrs.  De  Grey  had  been  content  to  leave  in 
obscurity.  Paul  was  perfectly  communicative.  If  Miss 
Aldis  cared  to  hear,  he  was  assuredly  glad  to  talk.  But 
suddenly  it  struck  him  that  her  attitude  of  mind  was  a 
singular  provocation  to  egotism,  and  that  for  six  weeks,  in 
fact,  he  had  done  nothing  but  talk  about  himself, — his 
own  adventures,  sensations,  and  opinions. 

"I  declare,  Miss  Aldis,"  he  cried,  "you're  making  me 
a  monstrous  egotist.  That's  all  you  women  are  good  for. 
I  shall  not  say  another  word  about  Mr.  Paul  De  Grey. 
Now  it's  your  turn." 

"To  talk  about  Mr.  Paul  De  Grey?"  asked  Margaret, 
with  a  smile. 

"No,  about  Miss  Margaret  Aldis;— which,  by  the  way, 
is  a  very  pretty  name." 

"By  the  way,  indeed!"  said  Margaret.  "By  the  way 
for  you,  perhaps.  But  for  me,  my  pretty  name  is  all  I 
have." 

"If  you  mean,  Miss  Aldis,"  cried  Paul,  "that  your 
beauty  is  all  in  your  name " 

"I'm  sadly  mistaken.  Well,  then,  I  don't.  The  rest  is 
in  my  imagination." 

"Very  likely.    It's  certainly  not  in  mine." 

Margaret  was,  in  fact,  at  this  time,  extremely  pretty; 
a  little  pale  with  the  heat,  but  rounded  and  developed  by 
rest  and  prosperity,  and  animated — half  inspired,  I  may 
call  it — with  tender  gratitude.  Looking  at  her  as  he  said 
these  words,  De  Grey  was  forcibly  struck  with  the  inter- 
esting character  of  her  face.  Yes,  most  assuredly,  her 
beauty  was  a  potent  reality.  The  charm  of  her  face  was 
forever  refreshed  and  quickened  by  the  deep  loveliness 
of  her  soul. 

"I  mean  literally,  Miss  Aldis,"  said  the  young  man, 
"that  I  wish  you  to  talk  about  yourself.  I  want  to  hear 
your  adventures.  I  demand  it, I  need  it." 

"My  adventures?"  said  Margaret.  "I  have  never  had 
any." 

"Good!"  cried  Paul;  "that  in  itself  is  an  adventure." 


290  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

In  this  way  it  was  that  Margaret  came  to  relate  to  her 
companion  the  short  story  of  her  young  life.  The  story  was 
not  all  told,  however,  short  as  it  was,  in  a  single  afternoon ; 
that  is,  a  whole  week  after  she  began,  the  young  girl  found 
herself  setting  Paul  right  with  regard  to  a  matter  of  which 
he  had  received  a  false  impression. 

"Nay,  he  is  married,"  said  Margaret;  "I  told  you  so." 

"Oh,  he  is  married?"  said  Paul. 

"Yes;  his  wife's  an  immense  fat  woman." 

"Oh,  his  wife's  an  immense  fat  woman?" 

"Yes;  and  he  thinks  all  the  world  of  her." 

"Oh,  he  thinks  all  the  world  of  her!" 

It  was  natural  that,  in  this  manner,  with  a  running  com- 
mentary supplied  by  Paul,  the  narrative  should  proceed 
slowly.  But,  in  addition  to  the  observations  here  quoted, 
the  young  man  maintained  another  commentary,  less  aud- 
ible and  more  profound.  As  he  listened  to  this  frank  and 
fair-haired  maiden,  and  reflected  that  in  the  wide  world 
she  might  turn  in  confidence  and  sympathy  to  other  minds 
than  his, — as  he  found  her  resting  her  candid  thoughts 
and  memories  on  his  judgment,  as  she  might  lay  her  white 
hand  on  his  arm, — it  seemed  to  him  that  the  pure  inten- 
tions with  which  she  believed  his  soul  to  be  peopled  took 
in  her  glance  a  graver  and  higher  cast.  All  the  gorgeous 
color  faded  out  of  his  recent  European  reminiscences  and 
regrets,  and  he  was  sensible  only  of  Margaret's  presence, 
and  of  the  tender  rosy  radiance  in  which  she  sat  and  moved, 
as  in  a  sort  of  earthly  halo.  Could  it  be,  he  asked  himself, 
that  while  he  was  roaming  about  Europe,  in  a  vague,  rest- 
less search  for  his  future,  his  end,  his  aim,  these  things 
were  quietly  awaiting  him  at  his  own  deserted  hearth-stone, 
gathered  together  in  the  immaculate  person  of  the  sweetest 
and  fairest  of  women?  Finally,  one  day,  this  view  of  the 
case  struck  him  so  forcibly,  that  he  cried  out  in  an  ecstasy 
of  belief  and  joy. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  "my  mother  found  you  in  church, 
and  there,  before  the  altar,  she  kissed  you  and  took  you 
into  her  arms.  I  have  often  thought  of  that  scene.  It 
makes  it  no  common  adoption." 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  291 

"I'm  sure  I  have  often  thought  of  it,"  said  Margaret. 

"It  makes  it  sacred  and  everlasting,"  said  Paul.  "On 
that  blessed  day  you  came  to  us  for  ever  and  ever." 

Margaret  looked  at  him  with  a  face  tremulous  between 
smiles  and  tears.  "For  as  long  as  you  will  keep  me,"  she 
said.  "Ah,  Paul!"  For  in  an  instant  the  young  man  had 
expressed  all  his  longing  and  his  passion. 

With  the  greatest  affection  and  esteem  for  his  mother, 
Paul  had  always  found  it  natural  to  give  precedence  to 
Father  Herbert  in  matters  of  appeal  and  confidence.  The 
old  man  possessed  a  delicacy  of  intellectual  tact  which 
made  his  sympathy  and  his  counsel  alike  delightful.  Some 
days  after  the  conversation  upon  a  few  of  the  salient  points 
of  which  I  have  lightly  touched,  Paul  and  Margaret  re- 
newed their  mutual  vows  in  the  summer-house.  They  now 
possessed  that  deep  faith  in  the  sincerity  of  their  own  feel- 
ings, and  that  undoubting  delight  in  each  other's  reiterated 
protests,  which  left  them  nothing  to  do  but  to  take  their 
elders  into  their  confidence.  They  came  through  the  gar- 
den together,  and  on  reaching  the  threshold  Margaret  found 
that  she  had  left  her  scissors  in  the  garden  hut;  whereupon 
Paul  went  back  in  search  of  them.  The  young  girl  came 
into  the  house,  reached  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  waited 
for  her  lover.  At  this  moment  Father  Herbert  appeared 
in  the  open  doorway  of  his  study,  and  looked  at  Margaret 
with  a  melancholy  smile.  He  stood,  passing  one  hand  slowly 
over  another,  and  gazing  at  her  with  kindly,  darksome 
looks. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Mistress  Margaret,"  he  said,  "that  you 
keep  all  this  a  marvellous  secret  from  your  poor  old  Doc- 
tor Herbert." 

In  the  presence  of  this  gentle  and  venerable  scholar,  Mar- 
garet felt  that  she  had  no  need  of  vulgar  blushing  and  sim- 
pering and  negation.  "Dear  Father  Herbert,"  she  said, 
with  heavenly  simpleness,  "I  have  just  been  begging  Paul 
to  tell  you." 

"Ah,  my  daughter," — and  the  old  man  but  half  stifled 
a  sigh, — "it's  all  a  strange  and  terrible  mystery." 


292  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

Paul  came  in  and  crossed  the  hall  with  the  light  step  of 
a  lover. 

"Paul,"  said  Margaret,  "Father  Herbert  knows." 

"Father  Herbert  knows!"  repeated  the  priest, — "Father 
Herbert  knows  everything.  You're  very  innocent  for 
lovers." 

"You're  very  wise,  sir,  for  a  priest,"  said  Paul,  blushing. 

"I  knew  it  a  week  ago,"  said  the  old  man,  gravely. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Paul,  "we  love  you  none  the  less  for 
loving  each  other  so  much  more.  I  hope  you'll  not  love 
us  the  less." 

"Father  Herbert  thinks  it's  'terrible,'"  said  Margaret, 
smiling. 

"O  Lord!"  cried  Herbert,  raising  his  hand  to  his  head  as 
if  in  pain.  He  turned  about,  and  went  into  his  room. 

Paul  drew  Margaret's  hand  through  his  arm  and  followed 
the  priest.  "You  suffer,  sir,"  he  said,  "at  the  thought  of 
losing  us, — of  our  leaving  you.  That  certainly  needn't 
trouble  you.  Where  should  we  go?  As  long  as  you  live, 
as  long  as  my  mother  lives,  we  shall  all  make  but  a  single 
household." 

The  old  man  appeared  to  have  recovered  his  composure. 
"Ah!"  he  said;  "be  happy,  no  matter  where,  and  I  shall 
be  happy.  You're  very  young." 

"Not  so  young,"  said  Paul,  laughing,  but  with  a  natural 
disinclination  to  be  placed  in  too  boyish  a  light.  "I'm  six- 
and-twenty.  J'ai  vecu, — I've  lived." 

"He's  been  through  everything,"  said  Margaret,  leaning 
on  his  arm. 

"Not  quite  everything."  And  Paul,  bending  his  eyes, 
with  a  sober  smile,  met  her  upward  glance. 

"Oh,  he's  modest,"  murmured  Father  Herbert. 

"Paul's  been  all  but  married  already,"  said  Margaret. 

The  young  man  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  Herbert 
stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 

"Why  do  you  speak  of  that  poor  girl?"  said  Paul.  What- 
ever satisfaction  he  may  have  given  Margaret  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  projected  marriage  in  Europe,  he  had  since  his 
return  declined,  on  the  plea  that  it  was  extremely  painful, 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  293 

to  discuss  the  matter  either  with  his  mother  or  with  his 
old  tutor. 

"Miss  Aldis  is  perhaps  jealous,"  said  Herbert,  cunningly. 

"O  Father  Herbert!"  cried  Margaret. 

"There  is  little  enough  to  be  jealous  of,"  said  Paul. 

"There's  a  fine  young  man!"  cried  Herbert.  "One  would 
think  he  had  never  cared  for  her." 

"It's  perfectly  true." 

"Oh!"  said  Herbert,  in  a  tone  of  deep  reproach,  laying 
his  hand  on  the  young  man's  arm.  "Don't  say  that." 

"Nay,  sir,  I  shall  say  it.  I  never  said  anything  less  to 
her.  She  enchanted  me,  she  entangled  me,  but,  before 
Heaven,  I  never  loved  her!" 

"Oh,  God  help  you!"  cried  the  priest.  He  sat  down, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Margaret  turned  deadly  pale,  and  recalled  the  scene 
which  had  occurred  on  the  receipt  of  Paul's  letter,  announc- 
ing the  rupture  of  his  engagement.  "Father  Herbert,"  she 
cried,  "what  horrible,  hideous  mystery  do  you  keep  locked 
up  in  your  bosom?  If  it  concerns  me, — if  it  concerns  Paul, 
— I  demand  of  you  to  tell  us." 

Moved  apparently  by  the  young  girl's  tone  of  agony  to  a 
sense  of  the  needfulness  of  self-control,  Herbert  uncovered 
his  face,  and  directed  to  Margaret  a  rapid  glance  of  en- 
treaty. She  perceived  that  it  meant  that,  at  any  cost,  she 
should  be  silent.  Then,  with  a  sublime  attempt  at  dis- 
simulation, he  put  out  his  hands,  and  laid  one  on  each  of  his 
companions'  shoulders.  "Excuse  me,  Paul,"  he  said,  "I'm 
a  foolish  old  man.  Old  scholars  are  a  sentimental,  a  super- 
stitious race.  We  believe  still  that  all  women  are  angels, 
and  that  all  men " 

"That  all  men  are  fools,"  said  Paul,  smiling. 

"Exactly.  Whereas,  you  see,"  whispered  Father  Her- 
bert, "there  are  no  fools  but  ourselves." 

Margaret  listened  to  this  fantastic  bit  of  dialogue  with 
a  beating  heart,  fully  determined  not  to  content  herself 
with  any  such  flimsy  explanation  of  the  old  man's  tragical 
allusions.  Meanwhile,  Herbert  urgently  besought  Paul  to 


294  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

defer  for  a  few  days  making  known  his  engagement  to  his 
mother. 

The  next  day  but  one  was  Sunday,  the  last  in  August. 
The  heat  for  a  week  had  been  oppressive,  and  the  air  was 
now  sullen  and  brooding,  as  if  with  an  approaching  storm. 
As  she  left  the  breakfast-table,  Margaret  felt  her  arm 
touched  by  Father  Herbert. 

"Don't  go  to  church,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "Make 
a  pretext,  and  stay  at  home." 

"A  pretext? " 

"Say  you've  letters  to  write." 

"Letters?"  and  Margaret  smiled  half  bitterly.  "To  whom 
should  I  write  letters?" 

"Dear  me,  then  say  you're  ill.  I  give  you  absolution. 
When  they're  gone,  come  to  me." 

At  church-time,  accordingly,  Margaret  feigned  a  slight 
indisposition;  and  Mrs.  De  Grey,  taking  her  son's  arm, 
mounted  into  her  ancient  deep-seated  coach,  and  rolled 
away  from  the  door.  Margaret  immediately  betook  herself 
to  Father  Herbert's  apartment.  She  saw  in  the  old  man's 
face  the  portent  of  some  dreadful  avowal.  His  whole  fig- 
ure betrayed  the  weight  of  an  inexorable  necessity. 

"My  daughter,"  said  the  priest,  "you  are  a  brave,  pious 

girl-  -" 

"Ah!"  cried  Margaret,  "it's  something  horrible,  or  you 
wouldn't  say  that.  Tell  me  at  once!" 

"You  need  all  your  courage." 

"Doesn't  he  love  me? — Ah,  in  Heaven's  name,  speak!" 

"If  he  didn't  love  you  with  a  damning  passion,  I  should 
have  nothing  to  say." 

"Oh,  then,  say  what  you  please!"  said  Margaret. 

"Well  then, — you  must  leave  this  house." 

"Why?— when?— where  must  I  go?" 

"This  moment,  if  possible.  You  must  go  anywhere, — 
the  further  the  better, — the  further  from  him.  Listen,  my 
child,"  said  the  old  man,  his  bosom  wrung  by  the  stunned, 
bewildered  look  of  Margaret's  face;  "it's  useless  to  protest, 
to  weep,  to  resist.  It's  the. voice  of  fate!" 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  295 

"And  pray,  sir,"  said  Margaret,  "of  what  do  you  accuse 
me?" 

"I  accuse  no  one.    I  don't  even  accuse  Heaven." 

"But  there's  a  reason, — there's  a  motive — " 

Herbert  laid  his  hand  on  his  lips,  pointed  to  a  seat,  and, 
turning  to  an  ancient  chest  on  the  table,  unlocked  it,  and 
drew  from  it  a  small  volume,  bound  in  vellum,  apparently 
an  old  illuminated  missal.  "There's  nothing  for  it,"  he 
said,  "but  to  tell  you  the  whole  story." 

He  sat  down  before  the  young  girl,  who  held  herself  rigid 
and  expectant.  The  room  grew  dark  with  the  gathering 
storm-clouds,  and  the  distant  thunder  muttered. 

"Let  me  read  you  ten  words,"  said  the  priest,  opening 
at  a  fly-leaf  of  the  volume,  on  which  a  memorandum  or 
register  had  been  inscribed  in  a  great  variety  of  hands,  all 
minute  and  some  barely  legible.  "God  be  with  you!"  and 
the  old  man  crossed  himself.  Involuntarily,  Margaret  did 
the  same.  "  'George  De  Grey,7  "  he  read,  "  'met  and  loved, 
September,  1786,  Antonietta  Gambini,  of  Milan.  She  died 
October  9th,  same  year.  John  De  Grey  married,  April  4th, 
1749,  Henrietta  Spencer.  She  died  May  7th.  George  De 
Grey  engaged  himself  October,  1710,  to  Mary  Fortescue. 
She  died  October  3ist.  Paul  De  Grey,  aged  nineteen,  be- 
trothed June,  1672,  at  Bristol,  England,  to  Lucretia  Lefevre, 
aged  thirty-one,  of  that  place.  She  died  July  27th.  John 
De  Grey,  affianced  January  loth,  1649,  to  Blanche  Fer- 
rars,  of  Castle  Ferrars,  Cumberland.  She  died,  by  her  lover's 
hand,  January  i2th.  Stephen  De  Grey  offered  his  hand  to 
Isabel  Stirling,  October,  1619.  She  died  within  the  month. 
Paul  De  Grey  exchanged  pledges  with  Magdalen  Scrope, 
August,  1586.  She  died  in  childbirth,  September,  i587.'': 
Father  Herbert  paused.  "Is  it  enough?"  he  asked,  looking 
up  with  glowing  eyes.  "There  are  two  pages  more.  The 
De  Greys  are  an  ancient  line;  they  keep  their  records." 

Margaret  had  listened  with  a  look  of  deepening,  fierce, 
passionate  horror, — a  look  more  of  anger  and  of  wounded 
pride  than  of  terror.  She  sprang  towards  the  priest  with 
the  lightness  of  a  young  cat,  and  dashed  the  hideous  record 
from  his  hand. 


2Q6  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"What  abominable  nonsense  is  this!"  she  cried.  "What 
does  it  mean?  I  barely  heard  it;  I  despise  it;  I  laugh  at  it! " 

The  old  man  seized  her  arm  with  a  firm  grasp.  "Paul 
De  Grey,"  he  said,  in  an  awful  voice,  "exchanged  pledges 
with  Margaret  Aldis,  August,  1821.  She  died — with  the 
falling  leaves." 

Poor  Margaret  looked  about  her  for  help,  inspiration, 
comfort  of  some  kind.  The  room  contained  nothing  but 
serried  lines  of  old  parchment-covered  books,  each  seeming 
a  grim  repetition  of  the  volume  at  her  feet.  A  vast  peal 
of  thunder  resounded  through  the  noon-day  stillness.  Sud- 
denly her  strength  deserted  her;  she  felt  her  weakness  and 
loneliness,  the  grasp  of  the  hand  of  fate.  Father  Herbert 
put  out  his  arms,  she  flung  herself  on  his  neck,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"Do  you  still  refuse  to  leave  him?"  asked  the  priest. 
"If  you  leave  him,  you're  saved." 

"Saved?"  cried  Margaret,  raising  her  head;  "and  Paul?" 

"Ah,  there  it  is.— He'll  forget  you." 

The  young  girl  pondered  a  moment.  "To  have  him  do 
that,"  she  said,  "I  should  apparently  have  to  die."  Then 
wringing  her  hands  with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief,  "Is  it  cer- 
tain," she  cried,  "that  there  are  no  exceptions?" 

"None,  my  child";  and  he  picked  up  the  volume.  "You 
see  it's  the  first  love,  the  first  passion.  After  that,  they're 
innocent.  Look  at  Mrs.  De  Grey.  The  race  is  accursed. 
It's  an  awful,  inscrutable  mystery.  I  fancied  that  you  were 
safe,  my  daughter,  and  that  that  poor  Miss  L.  had  borne 
the  brunt.  But  Paul  was  at  pains  to  undeceive  me.  I've 
searched  his  life,  I've  probed  his  conscience:  it's  a  virgin 
heart.  Ah,  my  child,  I  dreaded  it  from  the  first.  I  trembled 
when  you  came  into  the  house.  I  wanted  Mrs.  De  Grey 
to  turn  you  off.  But  she  laughs  at  it, — she  calls  it  an  old- 
wife's  tale.  She  was  safe  enough;  her  husband  didn't  care 
two  straws  for  her.  But  there's  a  little  dark-eyed  maiden 
buried  in  Italian  soil  who  could  tell  her  another  story. 
She  withered,  my  child.  She  was  life  itself, — an  incarnate 
ray  of  her  own  Southern  sun.  She  died  of  De  Grey's 
kisses.  Don't  ask  me  how  it  began,  it's  always  been  so. 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  297 

It  goes  back  to  the  night  of  time.  One  of  the  race,  they 
say,  came  home  from  the  East,  from  the  crusades,  infected 
with  the  germs  of  the  plague.  He  had  pledged  his  love- 
faith  to  a  young  girl  before  his  departure,  and  it  had  been 
arranged  that  the  wedding  should  immediately  succeed  his 
return.  Feeling  unwell,  he  consulted  an  elder  brother  of 
the  bride,  a  man  versed  in  fantastic  medical  lore,  and 
supposed  to  be  gifted  with  magical  skill.  By  him  he  was 
assured  that  he  was  plague-stricken,  and  that  he  was  in 
duty  bound  to  defer  the  marriage.  The  young  knight  re- 
fused to  comply,  and  the  physician,  infuriated,  pronounced 
a  curse  upon  his  race.  The  marriage  took  place;  within  a 
week  the  bride  expired,  in  horrible  agony;  the  young  man, 
after  a  slight  illness,  recovered;  the  curse  took  effect." 

Margaret  took  the  quaint  old  missal  into  her  hand,  and 
turned  to  the  grisly  register  of  death.  Her  heart  grew 
cold  as  she  thought  of  her  own  sad  sisterhood  with  all  those 
miserable  women  of  the  past.  Miserable  women,  but  ah! 
tenfold  more  miserable  men, — helpless  victims  of  their  own 
baleful  hearts.  She  remained  silent,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  book,  abstractly ;  mechanically,  as  it  were,  she  turned 
to  another  page,  and  read  a  familiar  orison  to  the  blessed 
Virgin.  Then  raising  her  head,  with  her  deep-blue  eyes 
shining  with  the  cold  light  of  an  immense  resolve, — a 
prodigious  act  of  volition, — "Father  Herbert,"  she  said,  in 
low,  solemn  accents,  "I  revoke  the  curse.  I  undo  it.  / 
curse  it!" 

From  this  moment,  nothing  would  induce  her  to  bestow 
a  moment's  thought  on  salvation  by  flight.  It  was  too  late, 
she  declared.  If  she  was  destined  to  die,  she  had  already 
imbibed  the  fatal  contagion.  But  they  should  see.  She 
cast  no  discredit  on  the  existence  or  the  potency  of  the 
dreadful  charm;  she  simply  assumed,  with  deep  self-confi- 
dence which  filled  the  old  priest  with  mingled  wonder  and 
anguish,  that  it  would  vainly  expend  its  mystic  force  once 
and  forever  upon  her  own  devoted,  impassioned  life.  Father 
Herbert  folded  his  trembling  hands  resignedly.  He  had 
done  his  duty;  the  rest  was  with  God.  At  times,  living 
as  he  had  done  for  years  in  dread  of  the  moment  which 


298  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

had  now  arrived,  with  his  whole  life  darkened  by  its  shadow, 
it  seemed  to  him  among  the  strange  possibilities  of  nature 
that  this  frail  and  pure  young  girl  might  indeed  have  sprung, 
at  the  command  of  outraged  love,  to  the  rescue  of  the  un- 
happy line  to  which  he  had  dedicated  his  manhood.  And 
then  at  other  moments  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  joyously 
casting  herself  into  the  dark  gulf.  At  all  events,  the  sense 
of  peril  had  filled  Margaret  herself  with  fresh  energy  and 
charm.  Paul,  if  he  had  not  been  too  enchanted  with  her 
feverish  gayety  and  grace  to  trouble  himself  about  their 
motive  and  origin,  would  have  been  at  loss  to  explain  their 
sudden  morbid  intensity.  Forthwith,  at  her  request,  he 
announced  his  engagement  to  his  mother,  who  put  on  a 
very  gracious  face,  and  honored  Margaret  with  a  sort  of 
official  kiss. 

"Ah  me!"  muttered  Father  Herbert,  "and  now  she  thinks 
she  has  bound  them  fast."  And  later,  the  next  day,  when 
Mrs.  De  Grey,  talking  of  the  matter,  avowed  that  it  really 
did  cost  her  a  little  to  accept  as  a  daughter  a  girl  to  whom 
she  had  paid  a  salary, — "A  salary,  madam!"  cried  the 
priest  with  a  bitter  laugh;  "upon  my  word,  I  think  it  was 
the  least  you  could  do." 

"Nous  verrons,"  said  Mrs.  De  Grey,  composedly. 

A  week  passed  by,  without  ill  omens.  Paul  was  in  a 
manly  ecstasy  of  bliss.  At  moments  he  was  almost  be- 
wildered by  the  fullness  with  which  his  love  and  faith  had 
been  requited.  Margaret  was  transfigured,  glorified,  by 
the  passion  which  burned  in  her  heart.  "Give  a  plain  girl, 
a  common  girl,  a  lover,"  thought  Paul,  "and  she  grows 

pretty,  charming.  Give  a  charming  girl  a  lover "  and 

if  Margaret  was  present,  his  eloquent  eyes  uttered  the  con- 
clusion; if  she  was  absent,  his  restless  steps  wandered  in 
search  of  her.  Her  beauty  within  the  past  ten  days  seemed 
to  have  acquired  an  unprecedented  warmth  and  richness. 
Paul  went  so  far  as  to  fancy  that  her  voice  had  grown  more 
deep  and  mellow.  She  looked  older;  she  seemed  in  an 
instant  to  have  overleaped  a  year  of  her  development,  and 
to  have  arrived  at  the  perfect  maturity  of  her  youth.  One 
might  have  imagined  that,  instead  of  the  further,  she  stood 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  299 

just  on  the  hither  verge  of  marriage.  Meanwhile  Paul 
grew  conscious  of  he  hardly  knew  what  delicate  change  in 
his  own  emotions.  The  exquisite  feeling  of  pity,  the  sense 
of  her  appealing  weakness,  her  heavenly  dependence,  which 
had  lent  its  tender  strain  to  swell  the  concert  of  his  af- 
fections, had  died  away,  and  given  place  to  a  vague,  pro- 
found instinct  of  respect.  Margaret  was,  after  all,  no  such 
simple  body;  her  nature,  too,  had  its  mysteries.  In  truth, 
thought  Paul,  tenderness,  gentleness,  is  its  own  reward.  He 
had  bent  to  pluck  this  pallid  flower  of  sunless  household 
growth ;  he  had  dipped  its  slender  stem  in  the  living  waters 
of  his  love,  and  lo!  it  had  lifted  its  head,  and  spread. its 
petals,  and  brightened  into  splendid  purple  and  green.  This 
glowing  potency  of  loveliness  filled  him  with  a  tremor  which 
was  almost  a  foreboding.  He  longed  to  possess  her;  he 
watched  her  with  covetous  eyes;  he  wished  to  call  her 
utterly  his  own. 

"Margaret,"  he  said  to  her,  "you  fill  me  with  a  dreadful 
delight.  You  grow  more  beautiful  every  day.  We  must  be 
married  immediately,  or,  at  this  rate,  by  our  wedding-day, 
I  shall  have  grown  mortally  afraid  of  you.  By  the  soul  of 
my  father,  I  didn't  bargain  for  this!  Look  at  yourself 
in  that  glass."  And  he  turned  her  about  to  a  long  mirror; 
it  was  in  his  mother's  dressing-room;  Mrs.  De  Grey  had 
gone  into  the  adjoining  chamber. 

Margaret  saw  herself  reflected  from  head  to  foot  in  the 
glassy  depths,  and  perceived  the  change  in  her  appearance. 
Her  head  rose  with  a  sort  of  proud  serenity  from  the  full 
curve  of  her  shoulders;  her  eyes  were  brilliant,  her  lips 
trembled,  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  all  the  insolence  of 
her  deep  devotion.  "Blanche  Ferrars,  of  Castle  Ferrars," 
she  silently  repeated,  "Isabel  Stirling,  Magdalen  Scrope, — 
poor  foolish  women!  You  were  not  women,  you  were 
children.  It's  your  fault,  Paul,"  she  cried,  aloud,  "if  I 
look  other  than  I  should!  Why  is  there  such  a  love  be- 
tween us?"  And  then,  seeing  the  young  man's  face  beside 
her  own,  she  fancied  he  looked  pale.  "My  Paul,"  she  said, 
taking  his  hands,  "you're  pale.  What  a  face  for  a  happy 


300  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

lover  I  You're  impatient.  Well-a-day,  sir!  It  shall  be 
when  you  please." 

The  marriage  was  fixed  for  the  last  of  September;  and 
the  two  women  immediately  began  to  occupy  themselves 
with  the  purchase  of  the  bridal  garments.  Margaret,  out 
of  her  salary,  had  saved  a  sufficient  sum  to  buy  a  handsome 
wedding  gown;  but,  for  the  other  articles  of  her  wardrobe, 
she  was  obliged  to  be  indebted  to  the  liberality  of  Mrs. 
De  Grey.  She  made  no  scruple,  indeed,  of  expending  large 
sums  of  money,  and,  when  they  were  expended,  of  asking 
for  more.  She  took  an  active,  violent  delight  in  procuring 
quantities  of  the  richest  stuffs.  It  seemed  to  her  that, 
for  the  time,  she  had  parted  with  all  flimsy  dignity  and 
conventional  reticence  and  coyness,  as  if  she  had  flung 
away  her  conscience  to  be  picked  up  by  vulgar,  happy, 
unimperilled  women.  She  gathered  her  marriage  finery 
together  in  a  sort  of  fierce  defiance  of  impending  calamity. 
She  felt  excited  to  outstrip  it,  to  confound  it,  to  stare  it 
out  of  countenance. 

One  day  she  was  crossing  the  hall,  with  a  piece  of  stuff 
just  sent  from  the  shop.  It  was  a  long  morsel  of  vivid 
pink  satin,  and,  as  she  held  it,  a  portion  of  it  fell  over  her 
arm  to  her  feet.  Father  Herbert's  door  stood  ajar;  she 
stopped,  and  went  in. 

"Excuse  me,  reverend  sir,"  said  Margaret;  "but  I  thought 
it  a  pity  not  to  show  you  this  beautiful  bit  of  satin.  Isn't 
it  a  lovely  pink? — it's  almost  red, — it's  carnation.  It's 
the  color  of  our  love, — of  my  death.  Father  Herbert,"  she 
cried,  with  a  shrill,  resounding  laugh,  "it's  my  shroud! 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  pretty  shroud? — pink  satin, 
and  blond-lace,  and  pearls?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  with  a  haggard  face.  "My 
daughter,"  he  said,  "Paul  will  have  an  incomparable  wife." 

"Most  assuredly,  if  you  compare  me  with  those  ladies  in 
your  prayer-book.  Ah!  Paul  shall  have  a  wife,  at  least. 
That's  very  certain." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man3  "you're  braver  than  I.  You 
frighten  me." 

"Dear  Father  Herbert,  didn't  you  once  frighten  me?" 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  301 

The  old  man  looked  at  Margaret  with  mingled  tender- 
ness and  horror.  "Tell  me,  child,"  he  said,  "in  the  midst 
of  all  this,  do  you  ever  pray?" 

"God  forbid!"  cried  the  poor  creature.  "I  have  no  heart 
for  prayer." 

She  had  long  talks  with  Paul  about  their  future  pleas- 
ures, and  the  happy  life  they  should  lead.  He  declared 
that  he  would  set  their  habits  to  quite  another  tune,  and 
that  the  family  should  no  longer  be  buried  in  silence  and 
gloom.  It  was  an  absurd  state  of  things,  and  he  marvelled 
that  it  should  ever  have  come  about.  They  should  begin 
to  live  like  other  people,  and  occupy  their  proper  place  in 
society.  They  should  entertain  company,  and  travel,  and 
go  to  the  play  of  an  evening.  Margaret  had  never  seen 
a  play;  after  their  marriage,  if  she  wished,  she  should  see 
one  every  week  for  a  year.  "Have  no  fears,  my  dear," 
cried  Paul,  "I  don't  mean  to  bury  you  alive;  I'm  not  dig- 
ging your  grave.  If  I  expected  you  to  be  content  to  live 
as  my  poor  mother  lives,  we  might  as  well  be  married  by 
the  funeral  service." 

When  Paul  talked  with  this  buoyant  energy,  looking 
with  a  firm,  undoubting  gaze  on  the  long,  blissful  future, 
Margaret  drew  from  his  words  fortitude  and  joy,  and  scorn 
of  all  danger.  Father  Herbert's  secret  seemed  a  vision,  a 
fantasy,  a  dream,  until,  after  a  while,  she  found  herself 
again  face  to  face  with  the  old  man,  and  read  in  his  hag- 
gard features  that  to  him,  at  least,  it  was  a  deep  reality. 
Nevertheless,  among  all  her  feverish  transitions  from  hope 
to  fear,  from  exaltation  to  despair,  she  never,  for  a  moment, 
ceased  to  keep  a  cunning  watch  upon  her  physical  sensa- 
tions, and  to  lie  in  wait  for  morbid  symptoms.  She  won- 
dered that,  with  this  ghastly  burden  on  her  consciousness, 
she  had  not  long  since  been  goaded  to  insanity,  or  crushed 
into  utter  idiocy.  She  fancied  that,  sad  as  it  would  have 
been  to  rest  in  ignorance  of  the  mystery  in  which  her  life 
had  been  involved,  it  was  yet  more  terrible  to  know  it. 
During  the  week  after  her  interview  with  Father  Herbert, 
she  had  not  slept  half  an  hour  of  the  daily  twenty-four; 
and  yet,  far  from  missing  her  sleep,  she  felt,  as  I  have  at- 


302  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

tempted  to  show,  intoxicated,  electrified,  by  the  unbroken 
vigilance  and  tension  of  her  will.  But  she  well  knew  that 
this  could  not  last  forever.  One  afternoon,  a  couple  of 
days  after  Paul  had  uttered  those  brilliant  promises,  he 
mounted  his  horse  for  a  ride.  Margaret  stood  at  the  gate, 
watching  him  regretfully,  and,  as  he  galloped  away,  he 
kissed  her  his  hand.  An  hour  before  tea  she  came  out  of 
her  room,  and  entered  the  parlor,  where  Mrs.  De  Grey 
had  established  herself  for  the  evening.  A  moment  later, 
Father  Herbert,  who  was  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  study- 
lamp,  heard  a  piercing  shriek  resound  through  the  house. 

His  heart  stood  still.  "The  hour  is  come,"  he  said.  "It 
would  be  a  pity  to  miss  it."  He  hurried  to  the  drawing- 
room  together  with  the  servants,  also  startled  by  the  cry. 
Margaret  lay  stretched  on  the  sofa,  pale,  motionless,  pant- 
ing, with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  hand  pressed  to  her  side. 
Herbert  exchanged  a  rapid  glance  with  Mrs.  De  Grey,  who 
was  bending  over  the  young  girl,  holding  her  other  hand. 

"Let  us  at  least  have  no  scandal,"  she  said,  with,  dignity, 
and  straightway  dismissed  the  servants.  Margaret  gradu- 
ally revived,  declared  that  it  was  nothing, — a  mere  sudden 
pain, — that  she  felt  better,  and  begged  her  companions  to 
make  no  commotion.  Mrs.  De  Grey  went  to  her  room,  in 
search  of  a  phial  of  smelling-salts,  leaving  Herbert  alone 
with  Margaret.  He  was  on  his  knees  on  the  floor,  holding 
her  other  hand.  She  raised  herself  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  she  cried,  "but  it's 
false.  Where's  Paul?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  him?"  asked  Herbert. 

"Tell  him?"  and  Margaret  started  to  her  feet.  "If  I 
were  to  die,  I  should  wring  his  heart;  if  I  were  to  tell  him, 
I  should  break  it." 

She  started  up,  I  say;  she  had  heard  and  recognized 
her  lover's  rapid  step  in  the  passage.  Paul  opened  the 
door  and  came  in  precipitately,  out  of  breath  and  deadly 
pale.  Margaret  came  towards  him  with  her  hand  still 
pressed  to  her  side,  while  Father  Herbert  mechanically  rose 
from  his  kneeling  posture.  "What  has  happened?"  cried 
the  young  man.  "You've  been  ill!" 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  303 

"Who  told  you  that  anything  has  happened?"  said  Mar- 
garet. 

"What  is  Herbert  doing  on  his  knees?" 

"I  was  praying,,  sir,"  said  Herbert. 

"Margaret,"  repeated  Paul,  "in  Heaven's  name,  what  is 
the  matter?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Paul?  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  should  ask  the  question." 

De  Grey  fixed  a  dark,  searching  look  on  the  young  girl, 
and  then  closed  his  eyes,  and  grasped  at  the  back  of  a 
chair,  as  if  his  head  were  turning.  "Ten  minutes  ago,"  he 
said,  speaking  slowly,  "I  was  riding  along  by  the  river-side; 
suddenly  I  heard  in  the  air  the  sound  of  a  distant  cry, 
which  I  knew  to  be  yours.  I  turned  and  galloped.  I  made 
three  miles  in  eight  minutes." 

"A  cry,  dear  Paul?  what  should  I  cry  about?  and  to  be 
heard  three  miles!  A  pretty  compliment  to  my  lungs." 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  suppose,  then,  it  was 
my  fancy.  But  my  horse  heard  it  too;  he  lifted  his  ears, 
and  plunged  and  started." 

"It  must  have  been  his  fancy  too!  It  proves  you  an 
excellent  rider, — you  and  your  horse  feeling  as  one  man!" 

"Ah,  Margaret,  don't  trifle!" 

"As  one  horse,  then!" 

"Well,  whatever  it  may  have  been,  I'm  not  ashamed  to 
confess  that  I'm  thoroughly  shaken.  I  don't  know  what 
has  become  of  my  nerves." 

"For  pity's  sake,  then,  don't  stand  there  shivering  and 
staggering  like  a  man  in  an  ague-fit.  Come,  sit  down  on 
the  sofa."  She  took  hold  of  his  arm,  and  led  him  to  the 
couch.  He,  in  turn,  clasped  her  arm  in  his  own  hand,  and 
drew  her  down  beside  him.  Father  Herbert  silently  made 
his  exit,  unheeded.  Outside  of  the  door  he  met  Mrs.  De 
Grey,  with  her  smelling-salts. 

"I  don't  think  she  needs  them  now,"  he  said.  "She  has 
Paul."  And  the  two  adjourned  together  to  the  tea-table. 
When  the  meal  was  half  finished,  Margaret  came  in  with 
Paul. 

"How  do  you  feel,  dear?"  said  Mrs.  De  Grey. 


304  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"He  feels  much  better,"  said  Margaret,  hastily. 

Mrs.  De  Grey  smiled  complacently.  "Assuredly,"  she 
thought,  "my  future  daughter-in-law  has  a  very  pretty  way 
of  saying  things." 

The  next  day,  going  into  Mrs.  De  Grey's  room,  Margaret 
found  Paul  and  his  mother  together.  The  latter's  eyes 
were  red,  as  if  she  had  been  weeping;  and  Paul's  face  wore 
an  excited  look,  as  if  he  had  been  making  some  painful 
confession.  When  Margaret  came  in,  he  walked  to  the 
window  and  looked  out,  without  speaking  to  her.  She 
feigned  to  have  come  in  search  of  a  piece  of  needle-work, 
obtained  it,  and  retired.  Nevertheless,  she  felt  deeply 
wounded.  What  had  Paul  been  doing,  saying?  Why  had 
he  not  spoken  to  her?  Why  had  he  turned  his  back  upon 
her?  It  was  only  the  evening  before,  when  they  were 
alone  in  the  drawing-room,  that  he  had  been  so  unutterably 
tender.  It  was  a  cruel  mystery;  she  would  have  no  rest 
until  she  learned  it, — although,  in  truth,  she  had  little 
enough  as  it  was.  In  the  afternoon,  Paul  again  ordered 
his  horse,  and  dressed  himself  for  a  ride.  She  waylaid  him 
as  he  came  down  stairs,  booted  and  spurred;  and,  as  his 
horse  was  not  yet  at  the  door,  she  made  him  go  with  her 
into  the  garden. 

"Paul,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "what  were  you  telling  your 
mother  this  morning?  Yes,"  she  continued,  trying  to  smile, 
but  without  success,  "I  confess  it, — I'm  jealous." 

"O  my  soul!"  cried  the  young  man,  wearily,  putting 
both  his  hands  to  his  face. 

"Dear  Paul,"  said  Margaret,  taking  his  arm,  "that's 
very  beautiful,  but  it's  not  an  answer." 

Paul  stopped  in  the  path,  took  the  young  girl's  hands  and 
looked  steadfastly  into  her  face,  with  an  expression  that 
was  in  truth  a  look  of  weariness, — of  worse  than  weari- 
ness, of  despair.  "Jealous,  you  say?" 

"Ah,  not  now! "  she  cried,  pressing  his  hands. 

"It's  the  first  foolish  thing  I  have  heard  you  say." 

"Well,  it  was  foolish  to  be  jealous  of  your  mother;  but 
I'm  still  jealous  of  your  solitude, — of  these  pleasures  in 
which  I  have  no  share, — of  your  horse, — your  long  rides." 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  305 

"You  wish  me  to  give  up  my  ride?" 

"Dear  Paul,  where  are  your  wits?  To  wish  it  is — to 
wish  it.  To  say  I  wish  it  is  to  make  a  fool  of  myself." 

"My  wits  are  with — with  something  that's  forever  gone!" 
And  he  closed  his  eyes  and  contracted  his  forehead  as  if 
in  pain.  "My  youth,  my  hope, — what  shall  I  call  it? — 
my  happiness." 

"Ah!"  said  Margaret,  reproachfully,  "you  have  to  shut 
your  eyes  to  say  that." 

"Nay,  what  is  happiness  without  youth?" 

"Upon  my  word,  one  would  think  I  was  forty,"  cried 
Margaret. 

"Well,  so  long  as  I'm  sixty!" 

The  young  girl  perceived  that  behind  these  light  words 
there  was  something  very  grave.  "Paul,"  she  said,  "the 
trouble  simply  is  that  you're  unwell." 

He  nodded  assent,  and  with  his  assent  it  seemed  to 
her  that  an  unseen  hand  had  smitten  the  life  out  of  her 
heart. 

"That  is  what  you  told  your  mother?" 

He  nodded  again. 

"And  what  you  were  unwilling  to  tell  me?" 

He  blushed  deeply.    "Naturally,"  he  said. 

She  dropped  his  hands  and  sat  down,  for  very  faintness, 
on  a  garden  bench.  Then  rising  suddenly,  "Go,  and  take 
your  ride,"  she  rejoined.  "But,  before  you  go,  kiss  me 
once." 

And  Paul  kissed  her,  and  mounted  his  horse.  As  she 
went  into  the  house,  she  met  Father  Herbert,  who  had 
been  watching  the  young  man  ride  away,  from  beneath  the 
porch,  and  who  was  returning  to  his  study. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  priest,  "Paul  is  very  ill.  God 
grant  that,  if  you  manage  not  to  die,  it  may  not  be  at  his 
expense!" 

For  all  answer,  Margaret  turned  on  him,  in  her  passage, 
a  face  so  cold,  ghastly,  and  agonized,  that  it  seemed  a  vivid 
response  to  his  heart-shaking  fears.  When  she  reached  her 
room,  she  sat  down  on  her  little  bed,  and  strove  to  think 
clearly  and  deliberately.  The  old  man's  words  had  aroused 


306  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

a  deep-sounding  echo  in  the  vast  spiritual  solitudes  of  her 
being.  She  was  to  find,  then,  after  her  long  passion,  that 
the  curse  was  absolute,  inevitable,  eternal.  It  could  be 
shifted,  but  not  eluded;  in  spite  of  the  utmost  strivings  of 
human  agony,  it  insatiably  claimed  its  victim.  Her  own 
strength  was  exhausted;  what  was  she  to  do?  All  her  bor- 
rowed splendor  of  brilliancy  and  bravery  suddenly  deserted 
her,  and  she  sat  alone,  shivering  in  her  weakness.  De- 
luded fool  that  she  was,  for  a  day,  for  an  hour,  to  have 
concealed  her  sorrow  from  her  lover!  The  greater  her 
burden,  the  greater  should  have  been  her  confidence.  What 
neither  might  endure  alone,  they  might  have  surely  endured 
together.  But  she  blindly,  senselessly,  remorselessly  drained 
the  life  from  his  being.  As  she  bloomed  and  prospered,  he 
drooped  and  languished.  While  she  was  living  for  him,  he 
was  dying  for  her.  Execrable,  infernal  comedy!  What 
would  help  her  now?  She  thought  of  suicide,  and  she 
thought  of  flight; — they  were  about  equivalent.  If  it  were 
certain  that  by  the  sudden  extinction  of  her  own  life  she 
might  liberate,  exonerate  Paul,  it  would  cost  her  but  an 
instant's  delay  to  plunge  a  knife  into  her  heart.  But  who 
should  say  that,  enfeebled,  undermined  as  he  was,  the  shock 
of  her  death  might  not  give  him  his  own  quietus?  Worse 
than  all  was  the  suspicion  that  he  had  begun  to  dislike  her, 
and  that  a  dim  perception  of  her  noxious  influence  had 
already  taken  possession  of  his  senses.  He  was  cold  and 
distant.  Why  else,  when  he  had  begun  really  to  feel  ill, 
had  he  not  spoken  first  to  her?  She  was  distasteful,  loath- 
some. Nevertheless,  Margaret  still  grasped,  with  all  the 
avidity  of  despair,  at  the  idea  that  it  was  still  not  too*  late 
to  take  him  into  her  counsels,  and  to  reveal  to  him  all  the 
horrors  of  her  secret.  Then  at  least,  whatever  came,  death 
or  freedom,  they  should  meet  it  together. 

Now  that  the  enchantment  of  her  fancied  triumph  had 
been  taken  from  her,  she  felt  utterly  exhausted  and  over- 
whelmed. Her  whole  organism  ached  with  the  desire  for 
sleep  and  forgetfulness.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  sank 
into  the  very  stupor  of  respose.  When  she  came  to  her 
senses,  her  room  was  dark.  She  rose,  and  went  to  her 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  307 

window,  and  saw  the  stars.  Lighting  a  candle,  she  found 
that  her  little  clock  indicated  nine.  She  had  slept  five 
hours.  She  hastily  dressed  herself,  and  went  down  stairs. 

In  the  drawing-room,  by  an  open  window,  wrapped  in  a 
shawl,  with  a  lighted  candle,  sat  Mrs.  De  Grey. 

"You're  happy,  my  dear,"  she  cried,  "to  be  able  to 
sleep  so  soundly,  when  we  are  all  in  such  a  state." 

"What  state,  dear  lady?" 

"Paul  has  not  come  in." 

Margaret  made  no  reply;  she  was  listening  intently  to 
the  distant  sound  of  a  horse's  steps.  She  hurried  out  of 
the  room,  to  the  front  door,  and  across  the  court-yard  to 
the  gate.  There,  in  the  dark  starlight,  she  saw  a  figure 
advancing,  and  the  rapid  ring  of  hoofs.  The  poor  girl 
suffered  but  a  moment's  suspense.  Paul's  horse  came  dash- 
ing along  the  road — riderless.  Margaret,  with  a  cry,  plunged 
forward,  grasping  at  his  bridle;  but  he  swerved,  with  a 
loud  neigh,  and,  scarcely  slackening  his  pace,  swept  into 
the  enclosure  at  a  lower  entrance,  where  Margaret  heard 
him  clattering  over  the  stones  on  the  road  to  the  stable, 
greeted  by  shouts  and  ejaculations  from  the  hostler. 

Madly,  precipitately,  Margaret  rushed  out  into  the  dark- 
ness, along  the  road,  calling  upon  Paul's  name.  She  had 
not  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  when  she  heard  an  answering 
voice.  Repeating  her  cry,  she  recognized  her  lover's  ac- 
cents. 

He  was  upright,  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  apparently 
uninjured,  but  with  his  face  gleaming  through  the  dark- 
ness like  a  mask  of  reproach,  white  with  the  phosphorescent 
dews  of  death.  He  had  suddenly  felt  weak  and  dizzy,  and 
in  the  effort  to  keep  himself  in  the  saddle  had  frightened 
his  horse,  who  had  fiercely  plunged,  and  unseated  him. 
He  leaned  on  Margaret's  shoulder  for  support,  and  spoke 
with  a  faltering  voice. 

"I  have  been  riding,"  he  said,  "like  a  madman.  I  felt 
ill  when  I  went  out,  but  without  the  shadow  of  a  cause. 
I  was  determined  to  work  it  off  by  motion  and  the  open  air." 
And  he  stopped,  gasping. 

"And  you  feel  better,  dearest?"  murmured  Margaret. 


3o8  TRAVELLING  COMPANIONS 

"No,  I  feel  worse.     I'm  a  dead  man." 

Margaret  clasped  her  lover  in  her  arms  with  a  long, 
piercing  moan,  which  resounded  through  the  night. 

"I'm  yours  no  longer,  dear  unhappy  soul, — I  belong,  by 
I  don't  know  what  fatal,  inexorable  ties,  to  darkness  and 
death  and  nothingness.  They  stifle  me.  Do  you  hear  my 
voice?" 

"Ah,  senseless  clod  that  I  am,  I  have  killed  you!" 

"I  believe  it's  true.  But  it's  strange.  What  is  it,  Mar- 
garet?— you're  enchanted,  baleful,  fatal!"  He  spoke  barely 
above  a  whisper,  as  if  his  voice  were  leaving  him;  his 
breath  was  cold  on  her  cheek,  and  his  arm  heavy  on  her 
neck. 

"Nay,"  she  cried,  "in  Heaven's  name,  go  on!  Say  some- 
thing that  will  kill  me." 

"Farewell,  farewell!"  said  Paul,  collapsing. 

Margaret's  cry  had  been,  for  the  startled  household  she 
had  left  behind  her,  an  index  to  her  halting-place.  Father 
Herbert  drew  near  hastily,  with  servants  and  lights.  They 
found  Margaret  sitting  by  the  roadside,  with  her  feet  in  a 
ditch,  clasping  her  lover's  inanimate  head  in  her  arms,  and 
covering  it  with  kisses,  wildly  moaning.  The  sense  had  left 
her  mind  as  completely  as  his  body,  and  it  was  likely  to 
come  back  to  one  as  little  as  to  the  other. 

A  great  many  months  naturally  elapsed  before  Mrs.  De 
Grey  found  herself  in  the  humor  to  allude  directly  to  the 
immense  calamity  which  had  overwhelmed  her  house;  and 
when  she  did  so,  Father  Herbert  was  surprised  to  find  that 
she  still  refused  to  accept  the  idea  of  a  supernatural  pressure 
upon  her  son's  life,  and  that  she  quietly  cherished  the  belief 
that  he  had  died  of  the  fall  from  his  horse. 

"And  suppose  Margaret  had  died?  Would  to  Heaven 
she  had!"  said  the  priest. 

•     "Ah,  suppose!"  said  Mrs.  De  Grey.    "Do  you  make  that 
wish  for  the  sake  of  your  theory?" 

"Suppose  that  Margaret  had  had  a  lover, — a  passionate 
lover, — who  had  offered  her  his  heart  before  Paul  had  ever 


DE  GREY:    A  ROMANCE  309 

seen  her;  and  then  that  Paul  had  come,  bearing  love  and 
death." 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"Which  of  the  three,  think  you,  would  have  had  most 
cause  for  sadness?" 

"It's  always  the  survivors  of  a  calamity  who  are  to  be 
pitied,"  said  Mrs.  De  Grey. 

"Yes,  madam,  it's  the  survivors,— even  after  fifty  years." 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


APR  2  9 1975 
MAY  11 


50m-12,'70  (P1251s8)  2373-3  A,l 


PS2116.T75 


3  2106  00207  3994 


